


Proof Positive, O Negative

by Kireijo



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kireijo/pseuds/Kireijo





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

There will be mild spoilers eventually for The Pilot and for anything to do with Yin/Yang.  Anything else I'll list as I go.

Author's Chapter Notes:

And so it begins...

        Law is the Voice of the People.  
        Justice Makes It Heard.

    Shawn paced beside the short flight of steps that led up to the offices of the District Attorney, baking in the hot California sun.  Gus, on the other hand, leaned against a nearby tree, as cool as a proverbial cucumber in his crisp white linen shirt.  Shawn realized with supreme annoyance that on the average day in Santa Barbara, he'd be the one looking all calm and cucumber-ish, while Gus would be the one freaking out like the proverbial freak-a-zoid.  Not the other way around.  But those words engraved above the D.A.'s front door - words that Detective Carlton Lassiter probably had tramp-stamped across his backside - taunted Shawn like a heckler mocking a stand-up comic.  And he had yet to think of a good comeback. 

    Chief Vick had disappeared into that building ages ago along with Lassie and Jules, not to mention his own father.  It wasn't fair.  If anybody should be defending his status as a psychic it should be him, not them.  But he and Gus had been barred from these preliminary fact-finding meetings.  Completely unfair.

    "How long has it been?"

    "Three minutes longer than the last time you asked me," said Gus, not even bothering to look at his watch.

    "And how long was it then?"

    "One hour and fifty-four minutes.  It's past noon.  Can we go to lunch now?"

    "No, Gus, we cannot go to lunch now.  Not until I find out if Doogie Howser's going to drop this frivolous lawsuit or not."

    "It's not frivolous and it's not a lawsuit, Shawn.  The Assistant District Attorney's name is Daniel Howard, not Doogie Howser.  And he's considering pressing charges against you for defrauding the city, not suing you."

    "I haven't defrauded anybody!  I solve crimes.  I mean, we!"  He quickly amended at Gus's slight frown.   Gesturing broadly to encompass both himself and Gus, he continued.  "We solve crimes on a weekly basis.  We make the SBPD look good.  We make the city look good.  And we, the both of us, we look damn good doing it!"  
     
    "You know that's right," Gus agreed with a nod and his trademark 'smooth' grin, clearly appeased by Shawn's speech.

    "So why is he doing this?" Shawn asked for about the hundredth time that morning, maybe the millionth time since everyone got notice to appear less than a week ago.  "He's been out to get me ever since the whole Czarski thing, even though we got the guy in the end.  It's crazy.  Internal Affairs dropped their investigation.  The D.A. dropped his, too.  But this Ass. D.A. just won't leave me alone."

    "I believe he's properly referred to as an A.D.A."

    "I like my abbreviation better," said Shawn, hands briefly slapping out a nervous and erratic rhythm on his stomach as he paced.  "I'm not worried about the Chief, and I know Jules will stick up for me.  Even Lassie can't say anything too incriminating against me.  But why did he have to call in my dad."

    "Because he works for the city now."

    "Dude, I know that."  
     
    "Then why'd you ask?"

    "It was a harmonical question."

    Gus scoffed at him.  "Uh, I think you mean a rhetorical question.  And do not say you've heard it both ways because harmonical isn't even a real word."

    Shawn couldn't believe it.  Even Gus had turned against him.  "I can't do this with you right now," he shot back as he executed another sharp turn, followed by six steps.  Henry had lied for him before, but what if they put him under oath?  Turn.  Six steps.  Maybe it wouldn't come to that, but if it did…  Turn.  Six steps.  What would Henry Spencer do?

    "Anyway, he can't prove, I mean, absolutely prove that I'm not psychic," Shawn almost shouted as his pace quickened.  "And if I could just talk to the guy face to face, I could prove to him that I am!"

    "Even though you're not."

    Shawn stopped short in complete shock and rounded on Gus, one finger pressed firmly to his lips as he stalked toward him.  "Holy crap, Gus," he growled at his partner, keeping his voice low.  "Why don't you talk a little louder while we're standing right next to the lion's den, the viper's nest, the dragon's lair, the-"

    "I get the idea," Gus said as he folded his arms across his chest, clearly unimpressed by the gravity of the situation.  Then he frowned, and Shawn realized he'd overplayed his hand.  "Do you mean to tell me that we're actually waiting here, not to talk with  your dad and the others when they finish, but because you want to talk directly to Howard?  I don't think any psychic vision you can come up with based off tan lines on his ring finger or cat hairs on his pant leg or strange dirt on his shoes is going to convince the man you're really psychic."

    "Sure it will," Shawn insisted as he looked back toward the office doors, still stubbornly closed.  Almost without conscious thought he resumed his pacing pattern beside the steps.  "He has to believe me, Gus," Shawn muttered, chewing nervously at his lower lip as he went along.  "What do we know about Doogie, anyway?"

    "Nothing that can't be found on Google or Wikipedia by anybody else who bothers to look," said Gus, but he still pulled out his cell and started a search.  "He's got a spotless record, a rich fiance', and he's moving up the political ranks.  But that's it.   Don't you get it, Shawn?  On the skepticism scale, this guy is Lassiter times a thousand.  He's not going to buy what you're selling, no matter how good you package it."

    "Then my dad had better be a better liar than he is a parent, or I'm completely screwed."  Gus only nodded in response to that, which didn't help reduce Shawn's level of anxiety one little bit.  "As my best friend you're really slacking off on the job, Gus.  You're supposed to calm me down, not freak me out even more."

    "You can't prove to someone like A.D.A. Howard that you're really psychic.  But."  He held up one finger to make his point.  "He can't prove that you're not, either, no matter what anybody else says.  Even your father.  He'd be wasting city resources on something he couldn't possibly prove.  Besides that, our record speaks for itself.  He'd be an idiot to press charges.  And I seriously doubt the Chief, the D.A. or the mayor would let him go through with a public court trial.  Chief Vick's probably in there right now chewing him out for even considering charges against you."

    Shawn's pacing slowed as he let Gus's words of reason sink in.  Of course the guy couldn't throw him in jail.  After all he'd done for the City of Santa Barbara - starting with his earliest work on the McCallum case right on down the line to the Yin/Yang killers, and everything in-between - they loved him down at City Hall.  He'd be fine.  He had too many people firmly on his side for one colossal jerk of a lawyer to tip the scales against him.  As long as they never put his dad under oath, he'd be fine.  And even then he'd probably survive.

    "Feel better?" Gus asked as Shawn meandered back and propped himself up against the tree next to him.

    "Moderately," he answered, though he still wanted to know what his dad had said about him.

    "Can we get some lunch now?  I'm starving to death even as I stand here.  And I know you've got to be hungry.  You barely touched your Apple Jacks this morning.  You know the Burger Bus is parked right across the street.  I can smell it from here."

    Shawn grinned, feeling like the huge weight on his shoulders had been lifted, or at least seriously lightened.  "The Super Sniffer does it again.  Good job, buddy.  Last one there has to buy," he shouted as he pushed off from the tree, guaranteeing himself a head start.   Gus might run like a nerd, but he ran fast.  He cut across the wide lawn angling toward the corner where the walk sign had started to flash yellow.  He could still make it if he turned on the afterburners.

    "Shawn!  Get back here!" 

    The voice didn't belong to Gus, but to someone much older, and paler, and balder, and angrier.  He reluctantly stopped short as Gus flew by on his way to winning the bet.  Shawn didn't even try to call him back from his quest for burgers.  He just rolled his eyes as he turned and shuffled back toward his father, who had finally emerged from the building. 

    "Shawn, what the hell.  You know you're not supposed to be here, yet what could I see every damn time I looked out the window?  You, that's who!  Wearing a hole in the concrete with all your pacing.  At least Gus had the good sense to stay out of sight under that tree.  And where did he run off to so fast?"

    "Lunch," said Shawn with a sigh as he stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. "Which is where I was headed, too."  He looked longingly toward the corner of the block where Gus had reached the intersection.  He must have slowed down because he missed the light and now stood dutifully waiting for the signal to change back to 'walk'.  He didn't have to race anymore.  He looked back at Shawn, smiled and waved.  Shawn could see the smirk on his face even at this distance.  If he ran right now, he could catch up to him before the light changed and still win the bet.

    "You stay put," said Henry, grabbing his arm as he started to move.  "Shawn, I can't believe you've put me in the position where I might have to lie in front of a grand jury.  I don't know what you did to this guy, but you really put a bee in his bonnet, kid.  Howard's not going to let this go.  This is serious." 

    While Henry yelled at him, Lassiter and Juliet emerge from the building, followed by Chief Vick and the A.D.A. who looked like a shorter, blonder Hugh Jackman, minus the likability factor and cool Australian accent.  He and Lassie stood chatting together at the top of the steps, like long lost best buddies.  Sickening, really.  But then Jules smiled at Shawn and he lost track of everything his dad said - something about consequences and values and being a cop and blah blah blah.  She looked gorgeous today.  He made a mental note to wake up earlier in the morning one of these days so he could watch her get ready for work. 

    "Afternoon, Spencer," Howard said as he approached.  His smile would not have looked out of place on a cobra.  Actually he looked more like a rabid bunny rabbit, Shawn thought, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth as he made note of Howard's twitchy little nose.  "You'll be hearing from us soon.  Expect a subpoena for every single one of your case files for the past five years."

    "Really, all two of them?  Yeah, I'm not really big on files so good luck with that, man," said Shawn with a smirk.  The sound of a racing engine distracted him from whatever Howard said in response.  That noise didn't fit in with the typical sounds of downtown Santa Barbara on a Wednesday afternoon.

    "You are nothing but a charlatan and everyone knows it.  No matter what it takes, I'm going to…  Are you even paying attention to me?"

    "Obviously not," Shawn muttered in reply as he swiveled to follow the sound of a loud, un-muffled engine revving, the occasional squeal of tires as it sped through traffic somewhere to his right.  Henry grabbed his arm and caught his attention again.  Only then did he notice that Howard had already given up and stalked away.

    "This guy means business," Henry said quietly.  "What are you going to do about it?"

    "The same thing I always do," Shawn answered with a careless grin.

    "Improvise and hope everything turns out okay in the end?"

    "Exactly," he replied as he widened his grin for Juliet, who had finished with the Chief and started down the steps to meet him.  He shrugged off his father's hand and started towards her.

    That's when the shriek  of tires split the air, followed by a dull thud, a crash, and screams as the engine roared away again.  The sounds came from directly behind him.  From the intersection where Gus had been waiting.  Eighty six seconds exactly for the light on Figueroa Street to change, his brain automatically provided as he scanned across the faces in the distance.  Gus had been waiting for the light.  But no one in the gathering crowd matched the form, the face, the sweet chocolate head he most wanted to see.

    "Oh my God.  Gus!" 

    Everything else was instantly forgotten.  Voices called after him but he couldn't stop.  He'd started running even before conscious thought caught up to his feet, telling him only to run faster.  Darting through the crowd, he stopped short in front of the fallen figure - not moving, arm bent wrong, crisp white linen shirt slowly turning pink, pink deepening to red. 

    "Gus, no," he gasped as he collapsed to his knees beside his best friend.  He lay thirty feet beyond the intersection he'd been crossing.  Thrown thirty feet by the impact.  "No-no-no-no."

    "I'm a nurse.  I can help," someone said, a small hand falling on Shawn's shoulder.   Even before he registered her presence, she'd already started to check Gus's injuries.  But he couldn't focus.  Or more precisely, he could only focus on one thing - Gus's face.  Eyes closed, features slack, lifeless.  God, no.

    A quiet moan brought him back to his senses.  He blinked rapidly, clearing away useless tears as he reached out to hold Gus's head still with his left hand.  Though his eyes remained closed, Shawn saw how his right hand grasped feebly at thin air.  He took it firmly in his own and squeezed gently.

    "I'm right here, buddy.  You're going to be okay, you hear me, Gus?  You just hang on."

    He hoped, he prayed for those eyes to open, for some sign that Gus was still with him and would stay that way.  But another groan was all the reply he got as Gus's grip went slack.  Alarmed, Shawn looked to the woman, the nurse.

    "Is he…"  He couldn't say it, couldn't believe it.  The world froze for endless seconds as she reached up to touch Gus's neck.  She nodded to herself. 

    "He's unconscious but still breathing."  Someone announced that an ambulance was on the way.  And Shawn's own breathing kicked in again as he nodded sharply in acknowledgement.  But he kept hold of Gus's hand. 

    Unblinking, his cruel memory overlaid another image on top of this present horror, another moment so similar to this.  A friend, though nothing even approaching Gus, or even Lassiter for that matter.  But a friend nevertheless.  He had knelt beside Mary Lightly and held his hand just like this, cradled his head just like now.  But it hadn't done a thing to save Mary, to keep him alive. In the end, it gave the man nothing but the cold comfort of not dying alone. 

    Mary died because of Shawn's mistake.  But Gus couldn't die.  He absolutely could NOT.  Shawn wouldn't let him.  He wouldn't let go of Gus, not for all the world.  Though he was vaguely aware of the bustle of activity around him, Shawn could focus on nothing but Gus.  Nothing else mattered but this moment - his hand and Gus's hand and hanging on, not letting go.  
     
    "Gus," he said softly, not even sure if his best friend in all the world could even hear him.  "Don't you die on me, Gus.  Stay with me.  Please, just hang on."  



	2. Chapter 2

    Gus drifted in and out of consciousness, his grip on Shawn's hand tightening in pain every few seconds before gradually slacking away again.  He spoke only once, voice so faint Shawn could only fully understand by reading his lips.

    "Shawn?  What…"  His dark dazed eyes blinked open and struggled to focus, gaze drifting slowly sideways.

    "Hey Gus.  You were in an accident, so don't try to move, okay?" said Shawn as he grasped his shoulder and tried to keep him still.

    "Accident…"  He finally found Shawn's face.  "My car?"

    Shawn almost smiled at Gus's unnatural concern for his company car.  But any trace of humor evaporated when he briefly glanced at the nurse as she worked.  The fragments of bone jutting out from Gus's left arm made Shawn's stomach churn, like the wound on the left side of his chest hidden by blood-soaked fabric.  So much worse than the fatal knife wound in Mary's chest.  He averted his eyes, willing away that other image to focus completely on Gus.

    "The Blueberry's fine, buddy.  You?  Not so much."

    "Yeah, I figured that."  Gus gasped as his eyes squeezed shut and his grip on Shawn's hand tightened.  "Hurts."

    "I know, Gus.  But help is on the way.  You're gonna make it.  You just gotta hang on.  I'm not going anywhere, so don't you either, okay?"  He got the tiniest of nods in answer before Gus faded out again, but it gave him reason to hope.

    For the next two minutes, what felt like an eternity, he followed every command the woman gave him - hold this in place, press down on that, keep him still.  But he never let go of Gus, keeping in contact either by holding his hand or his shoulder or his head.  Gus would feel it, he told himself, and he'd know Shawn was still there beside him. 

    He would have kept it up forever, for as long as it took.  Nothing else mattered except being there for Gus.  But without warning strong arms wrapped around him, other hands forcibly breaking his hold on Gus as they dragged him backward.  He struggled, he shouted, he fought hard to get back to his best friend, now obscured from view by a wall of uniforms.

    "Gus!  Let me go, I need to help him.  Let me go!"

    "Shawn, stop it!  Look at me, Shawn."   

    Hands grasped at his face but he pulled away.  "I have to stay with Gus.  I promised!" 

    He kept fighting, landing a kick that made someone curse before he broke free from the restricting grip.  Shawn managed two stumbling steps back toward his goal before those hands latched onto his arm once again, spinning him around into a breath-stealing hold.  The voice continued to shout right into his ear, but this time he recognized the words.

    "Shawn, stop!"  More importantly he recognized the voice.  "You need to let the medics work.  Come on, kid.  Snap out of it!"  With that realization, he suddenly stilled.  The restrictive hold transformed into a crushing hug that he now returned with all his might.  
   
    "Dad!"  That single word came out as a muffled sob against his father's shoulder.  
   
    "I've got you," said Henry.  And he truly did.  Until that moment, Shawn hadn't realized how close to sheer panic he'd been.  His rubbery legs, racing heart and gasping pants as the world grayed out around the edges of his vision told him he needed to get a grip.  He just didn't know how.  

    Strong fingers kneaded at the back of his neck and shoulders as he tried to catch his breath and purge his mind of the endlessly running loop of horrifying imagery.  But nowhere in the last few minutes of blood and pain and panic could he remember his father being there.

    "Where were you?" he asked, almost demanded of Henry once he got his legs under him again and his breathing somewhat under control.  He pulled back and asked again, wondering at the tears staining his father's cheeks, uncaring of his own tears.  "Where were you?"

    "I've been right beside you the whole time. You never answered me when I tried to talk to you, but I helped the nurse to stabilize Gus.   Don't you remember?"

    Shawn finally noticed the blood-spattered cotton undershirt Henry now wore.  Sluggishly connecting the memory of the sky-blue polo he'd worn in front of the D.A.'s office to the gory material he'd seen pressed against Gus's side, he could only shake his head in disbelief.  "You were there?  Why didn't I…"

    "It's okay, Shawn.  You're in shock."

    "No," he insisted, pushing away when his dad tried to pull him closer.  "I'm fine, don't worry about me.  Just…  take care of Gus."

    "The medics are taking good care of Gus now, so I'm taking care of you.  No arguments.  Let's go."

    He didn't argue, but he didn't move.  Shawn had made the mistake of looking back toward his friend.  At this distance he could take in the full scene.  While he'd been solely focused on Gus, a trio of cop cars and two ambulances had stormed the intersection and taken over completely.  There had been other injuries, Shawn realized with renewed horror.  The rampaging vehicle must have sideswiped a mini-van as it made its escape.  Medics from the second ambulance had their hands full attending to the injured passengers, while swarms of onlookers still crowded around to gawk from behind the barriers. 

       But he couldn't see Gus at all - totally hidden by the men and women working hard to save his life.  They had to save him.  If Gus died…  
     
    He had to see Gus. 

    Before he could act on that sudden impulse, calloused hands took hold of his cheek and gently turned him away until his father's concern-wrinkled face and searching eyes dominated Shawn's field of vision.  "Are you still with me, kid?"

    He sniffed and swallowed hard, then nodded once, not trusting his voice.  Managing a deep but shaky breath, he asked the one question whose answer he most feared.  "Will he be okay?"

    Henry sighed.  "Gus's injuries are serious and he lost a lot of blood, but he got help quickly thanks to that nurse.  Whoever she was, she seemed very capable.  I think he'll pull through, Shawn, I really do.  Now sit down."

    Without his realizing, they had somehow moved beyond the intersection, all the way down the block to Henry's truck, as the rusty squeal of the tailgate swinging down informed him.  He hopped onto the makeshift bench, legs swinging off the back of the gate like a child as his dad draped a blanket across his shaking shoulders.  The springs creaked and the truck bed dipped as Henry sat down close beside him to rub circles up and down his back.

    "Dad, I feel like…"  He didn't finish that sentence.  He didn't want to admit to the nausea churning in his gut, the nervous flutter of his heart, and the difficulty of even sucking in enough oxygen to stay conscious.  This shouldn't be about him.  He hadn't been struck by some callous son of a bitch who just drove away again without caring.  He hadn't been injured at all.  There was nothing wrong with him, certainly nothing that deserved the attention that should rightfully go to Gus.  He hated feeling this weak, this helpless and out of touch with his surroundings.  So he wiped away his tears with the corner of the blanket and focused, for Gus's sake, on regaining control of himself. 

    Someone called Henry's name.  Shawn looked up to see Juliet arrive looking harried and serious, her usual sunshine face clouded by a stormy frown and worried eyes.  He tried harder to pull himself together for her, so she wouldn't have to worry about both him and Gus.

    "Detective."  Henry acknowledged her with a solemn nod.  "Tell me they caught the son of a bitch who did this."

    She glanced at Shawn with just the slightest hesitation before answering.  "Not exactly." 

    Shawn's mind, still hardwired to solve crimes despite the current disconnection he felt, filled in the missing pieces.  He remembered the endless sound of sirens, far too many for the five emergency vehicles currently on scene.  The Chief had vanished, too.  And though Gus would have picked it up ages ago, only now did Shawn recognize the distant smell of burning fuel.  He reached the only possible conclusion.

    "He crashed.  Didn't he, Jules."

    She met his eyes for a moment, her own eyes widening briefly in surprise before she nodded.  "It was more than just a crash.  He broadsided a packed tour bus on State Street, injuring dozens of people.  Fire trucks are on scene working to put out the burning jeep right now."

    "That explains why Karen disappeared," said Henry, his expression grim.

    "You're right.  With an incident like this, Santa Barbara will probably be in the national spotlight for a few days.  The Chief had to get over there to organize everything, notify next of kin and prepare a statement for the media.  But I'm here for both of you.  What can I do?"

    Shawn had been trying to focus on Juliet's words.  He understood that the man responsible for running down Gus had now hurt many more people.  But something she said struck him hard - next of kin.  He reached into the back pocket of his jeans as he slid forward.  But before he could jump off the truck gate, his dad held him back.

    "What's wrong, what do you need?"

    He couldn't answer at first, his heart rate already accelerating as he contemplated the call he had to make.  "Next of kin…  I have to call Gus's parents.  I have to tell them.  It was my fault."

    "No, Shawn.  Don't you dare think that way," Henry said with sudden vehemence.

    "But if I hadn't made him come downtown with me, if I hadn't challenged him to that race-"

    "Doesn't matter.  This was not your fault!  The only person to blame is the guy behind the wheel of that jeep.  Remember that, Shawn.  I'll tell Winnie and Bill.  You stay put."  He freed the phone from Shawn's numb fingers and slid off the gate onto the pavement.  "Juliet, could you stay with Shawn while I make some calls?  Maddie should know about this, too."

    She readily agreed, and Henry headed off at a brisk pace away from the intersection as he started the first call.  
     
    Embarrassed by his near-meltdown, Shawn stared hard at the cracked pavement, looking anywhere but at his girlfriend while he tried to bring his heart rate back down.  But he noted the dip of the truck bed and the creak of springs when Juliet joined him, a much smaller dip and a much quieter creak than when Henry sat there.  

    He shivered, folding his arms tight across his chest as his vision strayed once again toward the scene in the intersection.  He kept hoping for a glimpse of Gus through the crowd.  They almost had him ready to go, Shawn could tell that much at least.  But the suspense of not knowing, of not being right there with Gus, left him so out of touch with his immediate surroundings that the gentle squeeze on his left knee barely registered at first.  Reluctantly he dragged his vision downward in search of the cause, and noticed the small yet capable hand he knew and loved so well.  With a little effort, he pulled his right hand free of its confines and clutched hers tightly before resuming his watch on Gus.

    "Your hand is cold," she said softly, her other arm linking with his as they sat there together.

    "Your hand is warm," he answered.  It felt nice, the way her fingers intertwined with his.  Compared to the numbness that cocooned the rest of his body, it gave him something warm and positive to focus on.  
     
    "It's eighty degrees and you're shivering, Shawn." 

    He tried to think of something cute and clever to say to reassure her, but nothing came to mind.  "Dad said I'm in shock.  I…  I'm sorry."

    "Don't be."

    "I'm trying, Jules."

    "I know."  She leaned against his shoulder in quiet consolation.  Releasing a sigh, he sagged against her, letting his head rest atop hers as he maintained his vigil.

    First came a neck brace and an oxygen mask.  Then a heavy blue blanket.  Now the woman stepped back as the crew of three coordinated a lift.  And finally Gus came into view atop the gurney.  He was almost completely obscured by the brace, the mask, and the blanket, but still there.  Still alive.

    "Look!  He just raised his arm," Juliet exclaimed as she squeezed Shawn's hand.  "He's conscious!  Thank God," she added as she impulsively hugged him.  Though Shawn wasn't a very religious man, he shared the sentiment even if he couldn't find the words.  The feeling of relief that swept over him made his head spin.  He might have toppled off the gate like a straw man if not for her steadying arms.

     Within moments, they had Gus loaded inside the ambulance and drove off, lights and sirens clearing the way.  With Gus no longer in sight, Shawn determined to make more of an effort than he had done so far.  He tried to think of something to say, but only one thing came to mind. 

    "He was worried about his car.  Can you believe that?"

    She looked up at him, offering him a hopeful smile that began to penetrate through the fog he'd been lost in.  "Of course he was.  He loves that thing.  We'll take good care of it while he's in the hospital, I promise.  And I'll drive you and Henry there as soon as you're ready to go."

    "Dad can drive me in the truck," said Shawn, not really understanding what she meant.

    "No way.  Your dad is almost as torn up about the accident as you are.  Neither one of you should be driving right now."   With a twinge of conscience Shawn realized how selfish he'd been, wallowing in his own world of misery and totally oblivious to the suffering of others around him.  He knew Henry loved Gus almost like a second son, just like his mom did.  And Juliet…  He'd never even considered her feelings.  But Gus was her friend, too.

    "How are you doing?" he asked, the break in his voice spoiling his attempt to seem calm and composed, or at least calmer and more composed than he'd been so far.

    "I think I'm still in shock, too.  We all are, to one degree or another I suppose," she answered, her voice hushed as she leaned toward him.  He mirrored her movement, pressing his forehead against hers in a mutual offering of comfort.  

      In that moment, barely an inch from her lips, he could honestly say that kissing her hadn't even entered his mind.  Her vibrant blue eyes shining with love and sympathy preoccupied his mind.  They worked like a life preserver on a drowning man.  They kept him connected to the present when he could so easily slip back into the waking nightmare that continually threatened to swallow him - the swirling images of Gus's broken body and pained face, along with the fear and the guilty recriminations Shawn had only just barely managed to rise above.

    But the moment Carlton Lassiter entered his peripheral vision, he knew the cranky detective would get other ideas about the two of them sitting there.

    "Sweet Justice!" he predictably exclaimed.  "I thought we had a deal. No public displays of affection!"  Shawn felt a smile form at the sheer normalcy of Lassie being Lassie.  Even in the face of disaster, the man was a rock of stoicism.  Right now Shawn could appreciate his ability to stay detached.  The only thing that ever seemed to rattle his cage anymore was his partner's ongoing relationship with Shawn.

    "I've got this," Juliet said softly.  She pressed a quick but fervent kiss to his lips before she hopped off the gate, wasting no time in confronting her partner.

    "Carlton, give us a break.  Shawn is traumatized.  I was only comforting him, not making out with him for heaven's sake."

    "Oh, excuse me but I've been traumatized, too.  Somebody kicked me in the knee for no reason and now I'll probably need an MRI.  Feels like a torn ligament," he complained as he rubbed his right knee.  It suddenly occurred to Shawn that the anonymous kick he'd delivered earlier might not have been so anonymous after all.  "And you just kissed Spencer right in front of me," Lassie went on.  "So don't try to deny it."

    "I'm not denying anything.  He's my boyfriend.  We kiss.  Get used to it already."

    "Wow, your partner sure is a spunky little spitfire, but her judgement must be faulty if she's dating Spencer."

    Shawn immediately stiffened at the sound of that voice, that tone of sincere-casm perfected over years of defending criminals and prosecuting innocents.  Shrugging off the blanket, Shawn reluctantly slid off the truck gate and stepped up onto the curb to meet him.  "Her judgement is better than yours.  Why are you still here, Howard?"

    "I'm a material witness, Spencer.  I just gave Carl my statement, told him everything I saw.  Unlike some people who apparently didn't see a damn thing."

    "Carl?" he asked, catching the uncomfortable look from Lassie as his eyes darted nervously to the side.  "Let me guess, college roommates?  High school buddies?  Or wait, were you guys in the Cub Scouts together?"  It wasn't his best effort, not by a long shot.  But he needed to be a rock, like Lassie.  He couldn't let Howard get to him.  
     
    Unfortunately, Juliet latched onto the latter part of Howard's statement, rising to the bait that Shawn had studiously ignored.  "What do you mean, some people?" 

    Howard grinned, casually stalking toward her like a lion creeping up on its prey as he spoke.  "I mean, Detective O'Hara, that a genuine psychic would never have allowed his best friend to be involved in such a horrible accident.  But Spencer didn't see, or sense, or divine a damned thing that could have saved his friend, did he."

    Juliet held her ground like a honey badger, but she couldn't shield Shawn from Howard's words.  He felt them like a punch in the gut, and all his feelings of guilt returned in a dizzying rush of inescapable failure.  He should have seen something.  He should have done something.  He should have saved Gus.

    The A.D.A. must have sensed his weakness because he pressed his point.  "In fact, I believe this incident, and Mr. Spencer's complete failure to prevent it or warn anyone about it, constitutes proof that he's a complete fake, just like every other so-called psychic on the planet."

    "Shawn doesn't see the future, Mr. Howard," Juliet nearly shouted at the man, backing him up a step.  "He has never claimed that ability."

    Her fierce defense Shawn only made him feel worse.  The colossal secret he continued to keep from her was the only thing in his life he wished he could change.  But the fear that telling her the truth would change everything for the worse and only result in losing her, had always held him back.  He could only listen mutely as she continued to defend him.

    "He has always said that the spirits talk to him, not the other way around. That's how his gift works." 

    "Ah, but isn't it true that your boyfriend once saved a dancing girl from plummeting through a rigged trap door at a Bollywood-style show?  If he could see," and here he paused to put air quotes around that word, "far enough into the future to save some random Indian girl whom he barely knew and had no connection to whatsoever, then why weren't the spirits," once again with air quotes, "obliging enough to tell him his partner and so-called best friend was about to get pancaked by a drunk in a jeep?  He's not a psychic at all, just a man with good observational and deductive skills, plus a wealth of dumb luck."

    "That's enough, Mr. Howard," said Juliet like a teacher scolding a bully.

    "Maybe you're right, Detective.  Maybe I should end this.  Spencer, if you prove to me right now that you're really psychic, you'll be rid of me forever."

    Shawn wanted to leave.  He wanted to be at the hospital with Gus, even if that meant spending endless hours in a waiting room.  He'd promised.  But if he could satisfy Howard, he had to try.  "How?"

    "It's simple.  Tell me the license plate number of the jeep that struck your friend.  Heck, I'd even be impressed if you got the color right, since you couldn't have seen the accident from the bottom of the steps and with your back turned.  So go ahead.  Impress me."

    Color?   Would that really satisfy the man?  Shawn let his eyes drift shut as his fingers lightly touched his temples.  He had to have seen something.  Shawn replayed the memory of that revving motor.  He'd followed the sound with his eyes but never caught sight of it, not even the tiniest glimpse of a fender or reflection in some window.  Afterward though, he knew he'd seen a vehicle speed away down Figueroa.  For a split second, he'd seen it.  But when he tried to move into that memory, one color dominated all others - red - red against the concrete spreading wider with each passing second.  Gus's blood running red.  Too much red.

    "Red," he whispered, unaware that he'd said it out loud.

    But Daniel Howard laughed.  "Proof positive, right there.  The jeep was solid black.  Carl, I've got good news.  Looks like you might finally be rid of this thorn in your side after all.  I can't wait to get him in court."

    Whatever Lassiter might have said in response, Shawn didn't hear it.  He had opened his eyes, but the vision of red didn't fade.  Instead, he saw streaks of blood staining his hands, and black marks on his dark blue shirt and jeans where spatters of blood had soaked in.  Gus's blood.  Gus could be dying right now.  He needed to leave. 

    "Jules?"  He tried to keep his voice calm even though he felt utterly paralyzed, unable to look away from the blood.

    "I'm right here, Shawn," she said as she gently lowered his hands and tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at her.  "Are you alright?"

    He swallowed hard as he met her eyes.  "Can we go to the hospital now, please?"

    "Sure.  I don't know what's keeping Henry.  Get in the truck.  I'll go find him and we'll be right back, okay?"  He nodded his understanding and she headed off in the direction his dad had taken.  Unfortunately that left him alone with Howard, and he seriously doubted that Lassie would take his side over that of his old friend.

    He retreated back to his father's truck and leaned heavily against it.  But there was something he just didn't understand.  "Why do you hate me so much, Howard?" he asked.  "What did I ever do to you?"

    The A.D.A. chuckled.  "Haven't the spirits  revealed it to you yet?  Well, if they won't tell you, then don't expect me to.  Besides, I'm only interested in bringing con-artists like you to justice."

    "I have a one hundred percent solve rate for the city.  How is that conning anybody?"

    "Bullshit.  I've seen the police transcripts.  You accuse the wrong person just as many times if not more than you get it right."  Lassie actually smiled at that, apparently enjoying the whole scene as Howard continued.  "Your manic behavior and habit of spouting insane theories, as described by multiple witnesses, leads me to believe that you must be some kind of pill-popper or pothead."

    "Uh, Danny?"  Lassiter tried to interrupt as a frown formed across his high Irish brow.  But Shawn couldn't let Howard's statement stand.

    "I'm not an idiot, Howard.  I don't do drugs.  Never have, never will," Shawn insisted as he pushed away from the truck, fueled by growing resentment.

    "I find that extremely hard to believe.  Your partner is a pharmaceutical sales rep, isn't he?  I bet a little digging will prove my theory that he supplies the drugs that fuel your so-called psychic visions.  He's probably cooking the books at work as well."  
     
    "Danny, I don't think this is the time or place," Lassiter began.  "Guster's a decent guy.  And he's even been useful on cases… from time to time." 

    "Says the man who let this phony and his sidekick run roughshod over police procedure for the last five years."

    Shawn didn't care what Howard might say about him, but he couldn't let this jerk insult or threaten Gus.  Lassiter's pathetic defense made it even worse.  He didn't even try to hide the sarcasm as he responded.  "Way to stick up for Gus, Lassie.  You know damn well that he's the most conscientious and forthright person on the planet."

    Lassiter looked confused, as if he'd done nothing wrong.  "I said he was decent, didn't I?"

    Shawn just shook his head in disgust.  But Howard wasn't done yet.  "If Mr. Guster is such an upstanding citizen, what would happen if I called him to testify at your trial?"

    "He'd tell the truth," Shawn answered without hesitation.

    "So you say.  But you're a professional liar.  No, I think Guster is the chink in your armor.  If I can break him, I can break you."

    "Break him," Shawn repeated, the chilling numbness inside him quickly giving way to something much warmer and angrier.  "Dude, why are you being such an a-hole?"

    "I'm just getting started," said Howard as he grinned in his douchey way.  "In fact, I plan to prosecute both of you together.  Think how nice it will be to share a prison cell at the county jail with your best friend.  I know you'd fit right in there with your own kind, Spencer.  But I wonder how Guster would do behind bars."  
     
    "Just shut up."  
     
    But he went on.  "By the time I'm done with him, he'll regret ever knowing you." 

    Shawn stepped toward him, ignoring Lassiter's attempt to block him.  "I said shut up."

    "Of course this is all contingent on whether or not he lasts the day."

    "Shut up!"  He lunged at the man, fists balled in rage.  But Lassie stepped in and kept him from doing what he so badly wanted to do. 

    With a hand pressed against each man's chest, he bellowed. "Stand down!  Both of you!"  After a few seconds, Shawn dropped his arms in resignation and took a step back, prepared to let it go at least for now.  But Howard wouldn't stop.

    "If I ever did get Guster on the stand, you know damned well you'd be doing hard time, Spencer.  Both of you would.   From that perspective, you both might be better off if he dies."

    What happened next, Shawn could only describe later with the catchphrase 'And boom goes the dynamite'.  He completely lost it.   He lunged past  Lassiter and delivered a solid punch, one he sincerely hoped would wipe that creepy smirk right off the son of a bitch's face.      

    After that, things got a lot more sketchy for Shawn.  The anger that welled up in him as Howard talked caught him completely by surprise.  Now it ebbed away just as quickly as it had arisen, leaving him feeling completely hollow inside.  He stared at his hand, still stinging from the force of the blow he'd just delivered, still stained with Gus's blood.  He shivered, remembering his promise to Gus not to go anywhere.  He'd intended to stay by Gus's side or as close to him as he could get.  Gus could be dying right now.

    Between exaggerated grimaces of pain and indignation, Howard repeatedly demanded Shawn's arrest for assault.  And Shawn  knew, as the numbness overtook him once again, that he'd screwed up.  How could he keep his promise from a jail cell?

    "He shouldn't have said that about Gus," Shawn said softly as Lassiter approached, not meeting his eyes.

    "I know," the detective said as he solemnly pulled his cuffs from his pocket and moved to stand behind Shawn.

    "So… on the plus side for you at least, you finally get to arrest me.  Dream come true, right?"  He felt the cold metal encircling his left wrist before his right hand was firmly pulled down and behind him as well.  Taking the blood stains out of sight, but never out of mind.  Metal clicked into place around that wrist, too. 

    When Lassie spoke, Shawn could hear something like regret in his voice.  "For the record, Spencer, if he'd said anything like that about my partner, I would have punched him, too."  Then he drew back and spoke louder, in his official cop voice so there would be no doubt about it.

    "Shawn Spencer.  You are under arrest."  



	3. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

In which Lassie shows some tact and Shawn tosses some cookies.

 

  
    As a rookie on the force back in the mid-nineties, Carlton Lassiter saw more than his fair share of hit and run incidents.  After losing his breakfast all over the scene of his very first traffic fatality, he learned very quickly to separate his emotions, shove them into a mental box and lock them away until the job got done.  Only off duty in the privacy of his own home could he afford to unlock that box and deal with its contents.  
  
    Over time he learned to disengage most of his messier emotions all together.  Like flipping off a light switch - no box required.  He got good at it, rising quickly through the ranks to Head Detective as a result.  But on the negative side, he would often neglect to turn the switch back on at the end of the day.  His therapist suggested that might be the root cause of the divorce, but it made him a great detective and that's what mattered most.  
  
    Even though this particular hit and run involved a colleague - someone he even considered a friend of sorts - he still found a way to disconnect and do his job.  But in the back of his mind he acknowledged the need for at least a smallish mental box today, to hide away certain images, impressions and even a few emotions that he'd never admit to in public.  He couldn't process them now, but he knew he'd have to deal with them eventually.  
  
    Blunt force trauma was never pretty.  No one deserved that kind of pain, least of all Burton Guster.  Despite his association with Shawn Spencer and possessing more than a few annoying qualities of his own, he actually had fair deductive instincts.  He also had a seemingly boundless reservoir of both obscure and bizarre trivia that occasionally proved useful to a case.  He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time today, crossing the street just when some drunk in a jeep ignored the red light and plowed through the intersection.  Now Guster had to suffer for it, and not just him but dozens of others as well, all because the coward tried to run.  
  
    Lassiter felt the complete injustice of it all.  He could even allow himself a little sympathy for Guster's situation - for what his recovery would involve, provided that he DID recover, and for the emotional suffering inflicted on his family and friends as a consequence.  Anything else he might have felt got boxed away for later.  
  
    But witnessing the degree of pain that Spencer suffered on his friend's behalf, that took him completely by surprise.   Perhaps these scenes played out all the time without his ever noticing, but this time he did notice.  As Lassiter worked to control the situation immediately following the incident, he couldn't help but observe Spencer kneeling beside Guster.  Shock and fear and panic warred across the psychic's features as he tried to comfort his friend.  He seemed as disconnected as Lassiter always strove to be, only in the opposite way. Lassiter looked beyond the injury, since the nurse had it well in hand, and instead took in the whole scene so he could dispassionately collect and exam the evidence - witness accounts, tread marks, traffic cameras and so forth. Spencer, on the other hand, gave his full focus to his partner and instead disconnected from everything and everyone else.  He'd seen the man distracted before but never like this, and never so clearly terrified.  That image went straight into the box as well.  
  
    Maybe he hadn't turned off enough of his emotions, Lassiter thought, because he had somehow lost control of the current situation.  True, he enjoyed the idea of somebody finally going after Spencer's so-called psychic abilities.  Danny Howard had just the right kind of take-no-crap attitude to tackle such a difficult case.  And if it meant O'Hara would have to stop dating the man once he was convicted, so much the better.  
  
    But he should have stopped Danny from going on the attack, knowing very well the volume of sheer vitriol the man could produce at any given moment.  And he should have read Spencer better, a man whose best moves against a corrupt federal agent had been a slap in the face and a lucky crotch kick as a last resort.  Spencer didn't do violence, at least not well.  But as Lassiter suddenly discovered, the man did have a breaking point.    
  
    The instant those words left Danny's mouth, Spencer broke.  He ducked under Lassiter's arm and threw a right hook to the lawyer's cheek hard enough to send the man reeling.  He made a quick but belated grab at Spencer to at least prevent a follow-up attack, but all the fight had gone out of him already.  He guided the younger man without resistance to stand beside his father's truck once again.  
  
    With Danny loudly demanding Spencer's arrest and with at least a half dozen witness in the vicinity, he really didn't have a choice.  But it gave him no satisfaction, surprisingly.  When he caught sight of O'Hara and Henry barreling towards him with fire in their eyes, he knew he'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.  
  
    "What happened?" They both demanded in unison.  Everything went downhill from there.    
  
    "Spencer punched an assistant district attorney, on a public street in broad daylight," Lassiter explained with his usual no-nonsense approach.  "Howard wants to press charges so I arrested him, plain and simple."      
  
    "But how could you let that happen?  How could you arrest Shawn after what he's just been through," said O'Hara, looking about ready to rip his head off just for doing his job.  And Henry was even worse.  
  
    "My son needs to go to the hospital, not jail, damn it.  Shawn wouldn't just hit a man for no reason.  You were standing right here.  What the hell did Howard say to him?"  
  
    Lassiter tried to explain himself, but neither one of them would let him get a word in edgewise.  They ping-ponged between concern for Shawn, outrage against Lassiter, and sheer contempt for Howard, who didn't stay out of the shouting match either.  When they demanded to know what he'd said, Danny defended himself and attacked the psychic in the same breath as only a lawyer could.    
  
    "Whatever I might have said to Spencer hardly justifies the brutality of his assault against me.  The man should be locked away, he's mentally unbalanced."  
          
    "You cold-hearted son of a bitch.  You're the one who should be locked up!"  Henry stalked toward him with fists balled, the very image of his own son a minute ago.  If Lassiter couldn't regain control of the situation fast, he'd have to cart both Spencers off to jail.  
  
    "Henry , take it easy," he began as he stepped between the two.  But suddenly he had a face full of angry father yelling up at him.  
  
    "Don't you tell me to take it easy, Detective.  You're the one that let this happen."  
  
    He backed off a step, and even Danny Howard very wisely moved to one side and kept his mouth shut when O'Hara joined in.  
  
    "I can't believe this, Lassiter.  I know you've always disliked him and you hate that we're dating.  But this is too much.  You just sat back and watched, and didn't even try to stop them, did you?  You probably enjoyed it."  
  
    She had him there, at least in part.  He did enjoy seeing Howard put Shawn on the ropes for a few seconds.  But he also tried to stop what followed, and he told her so.  
  
    "I tried to block Spencer but he got by me.  I had to arrest him.  There was no other choice at that point.  What was I supposed to do?"  
  
    "You were supposed to stop him before it ever got that far," said Henry, his face red with fury.  
  
    "You were supposed to pay attention.  You were supposed to give a damn about him and Gus."    
  
        Lassiter felt the sting of his partner's words as she and Henry turned their attention back to Danny Howard.  While they continued their heated argument, he glanced toward his detainee, Shawn, leaning heavily against the pick-up truck as he stared his sneakers.  He could see the muscles working in the psychic's  jaw, the tears threatening in his eyes.  Lassiter wondered if he even realized they were all fighting over him.  Did he even notice them at all?  He looked utterly hopeless.    
  
    But Guster wasn't dead yet, damn it, and Shawn wasn't in jail yet either  
  
    With a sudden clarity of thought, he remembered Juliet's words from earlier.  'Show a little tact.'  Lassiter decided that, just for today he needed to feel more emotion in order to deal with this situation, not less.  Flipping on the switch and tearing the top off the box, Carlton Lassiter did what he should have done all along.  He put himself in Spencer's place and thought about how he'd feel if O'Hara had been the victim instead of Guster.  And then he got mad.  
  
    "Everyone be quiet," he said, barking out the order in a drill sergeant voice that never failed to get everyone's attention.  When he finally had it, he pressed his lips together to keep from saying more, or yelling more, which was more likely.  Even when Howard tried to restart the argument, Lassiter cut him off simply by raising his hand, palm out toward the ADA and then quickly closing it into a fist.  Howard accepted the unspoken invitation to shut it.  
  
    In the sudden quiet, Lassiter noticed all the hubbub around them, the cars passing through the now cleared intersection, people walking by on the sidewalk, giving them a wide berth.  He even heard birds chirping away, hidden in the nearby trees.  He took in the moment with a deep breath of warm summer air, and turned to the psychic.  
  
    "Spencer," he began, then reminding himself that he needed to do better.  "Shawn, are you alright?"  
  
    No, of course he wasn't alright.  He didn't even blink when Lassiter addressed him by his first name.  But he did look up after a few seconds  
  
    "I screwed up, Dad," he said softly, somehow avoiding eye contact with all of them.  Henry reached his side in an instant.  
  
    "Don't worry, kid.  I'll post your bail and have you out in no time.  Three hours at the most," he said.  Henry knew as well as Lassiter did how long it took to book someone and set bail.  Three hours was pushing it.  
      
    "Three hours?  But Gus could be..."  He dropped his eyes back to his shoes again as he finished weakly.  "I just, I really need to be at the hospital right now, okay?"  
  
    "I know.  And I'll get you there, I promise, Shawn," said Henry as he laid both hands on his son's shoulders.  
  
    "I promised Gus."  Lassiter barely heard that faint response, but he gave the two men some privacy.  He motioned his partner to stay with them as he pulled Danny aside.    
  
    "You don't really want to press charges," he began.  
  
    "The hell I don't.  I've got him right where I want him now.  Besides, I thought you supported me in this."  
  
    "This?  What this?" Lassiter asked, incredulous.  "Sure I liked the idea of going after Spencer and finally exposing him for, well, whatever he actually is.  But you've taken it too far.  A man might be dying and you just goaded his best friend into punching you.  You know I'll testify to all the circumstances that led up to the assault, every word you said.  It won't look good for you."  
  
    Danny smirked.  "You have no idea what a goldmine this is.  But then you never did know how to work the press, did you, Detective Dipstick."  
  
    "Danny-"  
  
    "It's all going according to plan, even better then plan.  Think of the headlines - ADA Daniel Howard Uncovers Fraud at SBPD, Psychic Assaults Howard.  This will be huge for my career."  
  
    With ever word, Lassiter felt his anger build to a boiling point.  But he kept it under control, responding through clenched teeth.  "Danny, you're an ass.  Contrary to whatever your own inflated ego might think, the world does NOT revolve around you.  Go to the station, file your damn charges.  We'll be there soon."  
      
    "No stalling," Howard cautioned as Lassiter turned away.  "If Spencer isn't behind bars within the hour, I'll have you charged with dereliction of duty, Carl."  
  
    "And if you don't walk away in the next ten seconds, I'll arrest you for obstruction."  
  
    "You''d never make that stick, my friend."  
  
    "We're not friends, Howard.  Five seconds," he said coldly.    
  
    Danny shot Lassiter one last look of contempt before walking away.  Releasing a sigh, he watched Danny go and realized the truth of his own words.  The two of them had barely spoken in years.  He actually felt closer to Spencer, and that was saying something.  Squaring his shoulders, he motioned for O'Hara to rejoin him.    
  
    "I tried to talk him out of pressing charges," Lassiter explained.  
  
    "And?  Howard said no, didn't he."  
  
    "He's like a pit bull once he sinks his teeth into something.  I don't know what Spencer ever did to him, but Howard wants to make his career by exposing him.  I did try, O'Hara, but you're right.  I should have tried a lot harder."  
      
    With the slightest smile, she silently accepted his apology. "So now what?"  
  
    "Plan B."  At her raised eyebrows, he explained.  "I'll radio Chief Vick and tell her what happened.  Maybe she can talk to DA Caruso."  
  
    "Our boss talks to his boss?"  
  
    "And hopefully his boss will talk some sense into him, yes."  
  
    "Do you think it will work?"  
  
    "Not really, but it's worth a shot.  And there's always Plan V," he said with a grimace as the idea struck.  
  
    "What's Plan V?" she asked with obvious suspicion.  
  
    "Don't ask.  Just take Henry to the hospital.  I'll be there with Spencer, one way or another, within the hour."  
  
    "Promise?"  
  
    "Absolutely," he answered.  He didn't quite know how to keep that promise to his partner, but just like Spencer's promise to Guster, this was one that he intended to keep.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
    Ten minutes.  
  
    Ten whole minutes had passed since Lassiter threw him in the back of his car, cracked the windows and stalked away again.  The detective never even considered that Shawn could slip out of his cuffs, hot wire the Crown Vic and drive himself to Santa Barbara General Hospital all on his own if he wanted to.  But Shawn figured he'd screwed up enough for one day so he sat there, both knees bouncing with nervous energy that rattled the whole car, and waited.  
  
    Gus would be in surgery for hours.  And if all went well they'd send him to Recovery and then the ICU for hours more, maybe days, where only his parents could visit him.  Shawn knew he wouldn't actually see Gus, even if he went there right now.  He just needed to be close to Gus - his partner, his best friend, his brother from another mother.  And father, too, for that matter.  
  
    Lassie's handcuffs dug into his wrists, and a throbbing headache pounded away at his temples.  But physical discomforted didn't matter.  Far worse, he hated the thought of sitting behind bars while his brother's life hung in the balance.  The sooner he got  this over with, the sooner he'd get free again to see Gus.  
  
    What was Lassiter waiting around for?  Hell to freeze over?  The Tennessee Titans to win the Super Bowl?    

  
    Another five minutes passed, ticking away on the face of City Hall's historic clock tower just visible above the trees to his left, before Lassie finally returned.  Snapping his phone shut and tucking it away, he climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door.  Sunglasses went on and the key went into the ignition, but he didn't start the car.  He just lowered his window and stared out at the clock tower, too, his chin propped up on his fist, elbow resting against the door.  
  
    Three more minutes passed before Shawn broke the silence.  He couldn't stand it anymore.  
  
    "Soooooo.  Are you waiting on a lady?"  
  
    "Excuse me," said Lassiter as he ripped off his glasses and frowned at Shawn via the rearview mirror.  
  
    "Or are you just waiting on a friend?"  He caught Lassie's patented eye-roll before the glasses went back on.  "Maybe you're just waiting for the world change?"  
      
    "Doesn't seem very likely," the detective muttered.  
  
    "Agreed.  Because waiting is the hardest part, or so I've heard."  
  
    This time Lassie only nodded and went back to staring out the window.    
  
    "Waiting and fading and floating away," Shawn riffed.  But those particular song lyrics disturbed him more than usual.  He gave up and went back to mindless leg-jiggling.  
      
    "Stop that."  Lassiter ordered after a few seconds.  
  
    But Shawn didn't stop.  "You know, the station is only two blocks away.  I could have walked there and booked myself by now."  
  
    Lassiter didn't respond, his expression in the mirror as grim and unmoving as ever.  Shawn couldn't figure him out.  He thought Lassiter would be eager to lock him up.  He'd already made it clear that he stood in Daniel Howard's corner for this fight, and he'd like nothing better than to prove Shawn was a fraud.  So why wait?  Was he trying to prolong Shawn's suffering?    
  
     As he tried to puzzle it out, his sluggish brain kicked in and reminded him that Lassie said he would have punched Howard, too.  He had also asked how Shawn was doing before, and even used his first name to do it.  Did he actually care now?  
  
    Realization dawned like a supernova.  He did care.  Judging by their expressions, Lassie and Howard hadn't parted on good terms.  Had he tried to talk Howard out of pressing charges?  His mind skipped ahead a few steps and reached a bizarre conclusion.  
  
    "You called Chief Vick, and now you're waiting to hear back from her before you proceed.  She's trying to get the charge dropped."  If he had his hands free he would have struck the psychic pose for effect as he added.  "You like me!"  
  
    "What?  No I don't like you!"  
  
    "Come on, admit it, you do.  You like Gus, too."  
  
    "I like Gus more than you."  
  
    "Ah hah!  That means you do like me."  
  
    "Spencer!"  
  
    "Don't try to deny it."  
  
    "I do not like you," Lassiter said emphatically as he twisted around in his seat.  But as soon as he looked Shawn in the eye, he faltered.  "I mean, I don't hate you either.  Not exactly.  Not like I used to.  I mostly dislike you now, and occasionally tolerate you," he said matter-of-factly.  "But that's it."  
  
    "We're super-double-secret special friends now.  We should form our own club.  The password is pickle-snot.  Don't tell Jules."  
  
    Lassiter turned away again in disgust, but he didn't seem all that disgusted.  Shawn smiled to himself, happy at being able to rile up the older man that way.  But then he suddenly felt sick for being happy at all while Gus was suffering.  He changed the subject.  
  
     "So what happened to the guy in the jeep?  Is he in jail?  Are we...  Hey, you're not waiting until he's safe in a cell before you haul me in, are you?  Because you think I'm a danger, like I'd attack him or something?  You want to keep us apart."  
  
    Lassiter shook his head in denial, but Shawn pressed on with the idea.  
  
    "Just because I pounded Howard, I mean, I wouldn't do anything.  I don't know why I hit him in the first place.  I just-"  
  
    "You guessed right the first time, Spencer.  We're waiting on the Chief, not the driver."  Lassiter sighed.  "He died on impact with the tour bus, or possibly in the ensuing fire, but that's for the coroner to determine.  They're still working on an I.D."  
  
    Shawn had edged forward as he spoke, but now he sat back again as far as the cuffs would allow, speechless and not really sure how he felt about that development.  Lassiter went on.    
  
    "More than a dozen people were seriously injured.  But he's the only fatality so-"  He stopped abruptly.  But Shawn filled in the blank.    
  
    "So far."  
  
    "What?"  
  
    "Only fatality so far, that's what you were going to say, right?"  
  
    When the detective didn't answer, Shawn slumped against the seat, heedless of the sharp metal edges digging into his wrists.  His traitorous memory kicked in again as his headache intensified - a moment in the morgue, when Shawn had stood beside Mary Lightly's mother as Woody replaced the sheet over his body.  Only now, in his mind he stood beside Winnie and Bill Guster as they held each other and wept over their son.  In his mind, Gus rested on that slab instead of Mary.  And Shawn felt sick, nauseous.  
  
    "I'm not handling this very well, am I," he said quietly, trying to fill up the silence and keep his stomach under control.  
  
    Lassiter tilted his head from side to side, carefully considering what should have been a yes-or-no question.  "I've seen worse," he finally answered.  "All in all I'd rate you a six on the KIT scale."  
  
    "What's KnightRider have to do with this," Shawn asked in confusion.  
  
    "It stands for Keeping It Together.  Something I came up with years ago to rate witnesses at a crime scene.  You're not clingy or weepy or hysterical, you haven't puked or fainted, and aside from punching Howard, you're not violent.  That's a solid six.  At a crime scene, anybody scoring a nine or a ten becomes an automatic suspect."  
  
    That seemed like perfect Lassiter logic.  But it didn't help his nausea.  The stagnant air inside the vehicle only enhanced the stench of the blood on his clothes.  He leaned closer to the open window, hoping for a cool breeze as Lassiter continued.  
  
    "As for the Howard thing, you were right about that the first time, too.  We did go to college together.  Not roommates but we both played on the soccer team."  An image of a gangling young Lassie running around in shiny white soccer shorts suddenly popped into Shawn's overcrowded head, and he snorted at the thought.    
  
    "I'm sensing you played...  goalie?"  That had to be right, the perfect position for someone with his long reach.  Lassie didn't deny it.  
  
    "Danny played forward," he said.  "But it's not like we were best friends or something.  We hung out.  But he was always kind of a jack-wad.  And I'm...  You know.  About what he said about Guster before, I'm sor-"  
  
    The theme song from Cops cut him off before he could finish his apology, but Shawn understood.  
      
    "This is Lassiter," he answered his cell.  Shawn could make out a faint female voice on the other end of the line, unmistakably the chief, but he couldn't hear the words.    
  
    "You're sure?"  He paused to listen again.  "Understood.  I'll handle it."  Snapping the phone shut, he tucked it back into his belt.  Finally he started the car and pulled out onto the street but at the intersection, instead of turning left toward the station, Lassie make a sharp right, accelerating into the turn so hard that Shawn half-expected the car to go up on two wheels.  
  
    "Take it easy, Roscoe," Shawn quipped weakly, as his stomach flip-flopped and sweat broke out across his forehead.  "Since when did Santa Barbara become Hazard County?  Station's the other direction, by the way."  
  
    "I'm aware, Spencer.  But I wanted to tell you a little story first."  
  
    "Ooh, story time with Uncle Lassifrass.  I'm all ears," he said, wishing he really was all ears.  That would spare his poor stomach from yet another fast, Crazy Taxi-style maneuver.    
  
    "I just want so say that you shouldn't worry about Guster.  I think he'll be okay.  His injuries were bad, but I've seen far worse.  For example, in my second year on the force, I got called to the scene of a major collision on the highway.  Drunk going the wrong way at two in the morning.  Anyway, a semi jackknifed, and this guy in his SUV goes right under it.  Takes the top clean off, and not just the car if you know what I mean."  
  
    Shawn did know what he meant.  He just couldn't fathom why Lassiter was telling him this.  Or why he'd started driving like an stuntman from Death Race 2000.  
  
    "I found his head about an hour into the search," Lassie went on casually, though Shawn's stomach twisted in knots at the thought.  "Clear on the other side of the expressway.  But that's not the worse accident I ever saw.  Once out on Highway One, I got to see what happens when a deer tries to fight an oncoming car.  Huge set of antlers on this guy and most of them sticking into the poor driver's chest.  She actually hung on for a few minutes afterward, just with this massive dead animal lying across her hood.  And the blood!  I've never seen a spatter pattern quite like that."  
  
    "Why are you telling me this?" Shawn asked, swallowing hard as the bile began to rise in his throat.  Lassiter took another sharp right, making Shawn realize they were driving in circles.    
  
    "I'm trying to make you feel better," said Lassie as he swerved around another car, throwing Shawn across the back seat in the process.  "Anyway, one time I remember we had this thick-as-pea-soup fog roll in.  And bam, eighteen car pile-up."  He turned right yet again, while Shawn braced himself as best he could.  But he was fighting a losing battle with his insides, who seemed to be staging a revolt.    
  
    "That one was a mess, Spencer, believe me.  Seven fatalities, some of them just thrown from their vehicles only to be crushed by the-"  
  
    "Could you stop?"  
  
    Lassiter ignored him and started detailing body parts and blood patterns that only made Shawn feel even worse, because with every new description, he involuntarily pictured it happening to Gus.  
  
    "Please stop," he said as he tried to put his head between his knees, panting heavily now for all the good it did.  
  
    "But the worst hit and run I can remember was when this guy got pancaked by a UPS truck, right up against the side of the Dunkin' Donuts on Butler Street.  Squashed flatter than a-"  
  
    "Stop!" Shawn shouted desperately.  
  
    "If you don't want to hear it, just say so."  
  
    "I mean stop the car, Lassie.  I think I'm gonna..."  
  
        He couldn't finish, but at least Lassiter got the hint.  The car whipped out of traffic and jumped up onto the curb.  Lassie got out and had his door open just in time for Shawn to lunge toward him and heave his guts out onto the hot blacktop.   As the blood rushed to his head, his visioned tunneled to a point.  With his hands still cuffed behind him, he helplessly tumbled forward and the blacktop swallowed him whole.  
  
  
  
  
    Someone slapped at his face none too gently seven or eight times before he gathered the energy to knock the offending appendage away.    
  
    "About damn time," a gruff voice muttered before he felt cold metal encircle his wrists and click in place.  He blinked his eyes open to see the same car, the same crabby cop, the same street, the same everything.  But one important thing had changed.  His hands were now cuffed in front of him as he slumped against the seat.  And something else changed, too.  Lassie looked... happy?  
  
    Shawn shot him a suspicious look as he got out of the car.  Lassiter must have been kneeling beside him, Shawn realized, based on the indent in the seat cushion next to him.    
    "What happened?"  
  
    "You puked," said the detective.  His eyes remained hidden by his dark sunglasses, but he wore an unmistakable grin.  "And then you almost fell into your own puddle of vomit when you fainted."  
  
    "I did not faint.  I blacked out," he defended, belatedly realizing how pathetic that sounded.  
  
    "Is that what we're calling it now?  Here you go, ya little girl."   He tossed Shawn a bottle of water and shut the door.  "Drink."  
  
    "Why are you so happy about it," Shawn asked as Lassie climbed back into the driver's seat and started the car.  "I'm pretty sure I blew chunks on your shoes."  
  
    "You want the good news or the bad news," Lassiter said in reply as he pulled back into traffic, driving far less like Mario Andretti on crack than he had before.    
  
    "Bad news," said Shawn automatically.  
  
    "I had to knock you down on the KIT scale for that."  
  
    "So what am I down to now, a four?"  
  
    "I'll give you a bonus point for punching Howard.  So we'll call it a five.  You're also buying me new shoes and paying to get my car detailed.  I only hope they can get the smell out," he added, wrinkling his nose.  
  
    "That's fair," said Shawn.  It really did smell nasty in here.  He took a sip of water and swished it around in him mouth, trying to erase the lingering aftertaste of stomach acid.    
  
    "So what's the good news?"  
  
    "You'll have to wait a lot longer for your cozy jail cell, Spencer.  Because after that little display, I have to take you to the hospital now, to get checked out."  
  
    Shawn couldn't quite believe it.  "Dude, seriously?"    
  
    "You're still in my custody, but there's a long wait at SB General because of bus crash, so we'll probably be there for hours."  
  
    "That's, that's fantastic," he said, suddenly feeling a rush of renewed energy at the prospect.  "But wait a minutes.   Did you...  Dude, did you make me throw up on purpose?"  
  
    Lassie's silence was confirmation enough for Shawn.  Only a real friend would do that, risk vomit in his beloved car and on his custom-made loafers just to come through for someone in need.    
  
    "You do like me."  
  
    "I'm doing this for my partner, not for you."  
  
           "Pickle-snot."  
  
           "Shut up, Spencer," Lassie said, but in the mirror, Shawn caught him smiling.  He grinned as he looked out the window for a glimpse of the hospital.  
  
            Hang on, Gus, he thought.  I'll be there soon.


	4. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

    If I hadn't called him back...  
  
    Henry Spencer was not in the habit of feeling guilty.  He would take the blame if he deserved it, and sometimes even when he didn't.  Either way, he would accept responsibility and move forward from there.  Guilt was for criminals, not cops.    
  
    Still, as he paced across the hospital's tired grey carpeting, waiting impatiently for Detective O'Hara to return, and for Detective Lassiter to actually keep his word and show up with Shawn, that regret kept running through his brain.  
  
    If I hadn't called him back...    
  
        Shawn and Gus would have kept right on running.  They'd have crossed the street in search of lunch long before that madman came blowing through the intersection.  And if that driver hadn't hit Gus, the chain reaction of events that led to the bus crash would never have happened.  With no hit, there'd be no reason for the guy to run.  So many people could have been spared from the pain he now saw everywhere he looked, a seemingly endless succession of injured men, women and even a few children streaming through the Urgent Care Center, with burns, lacerations, head trauma and more, intermingling with the typical array of illnesses and injuries found daily in such a place.  Not to mention all the worried families that crowded the main desk, desperately seeking word of their loved ones in the ER.  He felt for all of them, of course, but only one person's blood was very literally on his hands.    
      
    Realizing belatedly that he ought to do something about that, Henry headed out of the crowded waiting room, moving beyond the cacophony of voices into the relative quiet of the hallway.  Here the bass thrum of the air conditioning system drowned out the distant sounds of panic and distress, and the harsh odor of antiseptics masked the stench of painful reality.  In short order, he located a small restroom.  He studied his haggard reflection in the mirror rather than watch the blood staining his hands gradually sluice away in pink swirls across the white porcelain of the sink.  His clothes still bore witness to his reason for being here.  But Detective O'Hara promised to bring back a change of clothes for both him and Shawn.    
  
    Juliet - he reminded himself to call her that, especially today.  After all, she was dating his son, and she cared about Gus as a friend as well.  She offered to help out, not because it was her duty.  Not simply because of that, but because she could almost be counted as family.   Maybe someday Henry would gain her as a daughter, if Shawn managed not to screw up their relationship somehow.  But today, the Gusters might lose a son.  
  
    He hadn't lied to Shawn.  He really believed that Gus would make it, despite the vicious puncture wound to his chest, plus the broken arm, ribs and unknown internal injuries.  He had to believe Gus would make a complete recovery, because he refused to accept any other outcome.  
  
    If only Henry hadn't called Shawn back just to yell at him for being there in the first place.  Losing a whole morning to answer stupid questions at the DA's office, as angry as it made him at the time, didn't compare to potentially losing a son.  After endless phone calls just to track down Bill and Winnie, once he reached them Henry could hardly get the words out.  
  
    "There's been an accident."  
  
    How many times had he uttered that phrase during his days as a beat cop.  But that didn't make it any easier.      

  
    "The only person to blame is the guy behind the wheel."  
  
    He told them that, too, the same thing he'd told Shawn.  Now he just needed to believe it himself.  Henry didn't know yet what he would say to them when he finally joined them upstairs, once he could put on fresh clothes not covered with their son's blood.  They had gone straight up to the ER waiting area as soon as they arrived, anxious for news.  Whether they had gotten good news or bad, or no news at all, he only knew that he'd gladly take all the blame for what happened today so long as they didn't put any of it on Shawn.  
  
    The door handle rattled, and a sharp rap on the door brought Henry back from his revery.  Juliet could return any minute now.  He needed to get back out there and resume his watch.  
  
    "Out in a sec," he called to whoever was waiting out there.  A quick splash of water across his face sharpened his senses, and he hastily dried off with a wad of paper towels before exiting.  At the sight of the spots and spatters on his t-shirt and pants, the expression of the young woman waiting out in the hall shifted immediately from annoyance to sympathy.  With a sharp nod he cut off any attempt from her to apologize, and simply walked away.  
  
    Determined to avoid the oppressive atmosphere of the waiting room, Henry strode past the doorway with barely a glance inside, just long enough to determine that no one had come in while he was MIA.  Then he headed straight for the main doors and out into the afternoon sunshine that pounded down on the parking lot like a molten sledgehammer.  He barely noticed, instead falling into a pacing stride along the front sidewalk, arms folded tight across his chest as he went.  
  
    Anger welled up inside Henry as his thoughts turned once again to Daniel Howard's callous behavior toward Shawn after the accident.  The man had no scruples, no conscience.  And neither did Lassiter.  He fumed as he considered how poorly the detective had treated his son today.   He always thought that the rivalry between the two men somehow made both of them better detectives.  And until today he believed that Lassiter, begrudgingly or not, accepted Shawn and Gus as part of the team.  But his actions, or lack of action, to help Shawn made Henry wish he'd taken a few swings himself.    
  
    And Shawn...  Why did he do something so colossally stupid as punch an assistant DA?  No matter what the man said, Shawn should never have lost his temper like that.  Henry taught him better than that, and he felt the urge to scold his son for it as soon as he saw him.    
  
    Suddenly all of Henry's anger turned back in on himself for even thinking that way.  If Shawn wasn't handling today very well, Henry must take the blame for that, too.  Dealing with stress and traumatic situations should have been part of his childhood training.  Henry had never gotten around to those lessons because of the divorce and Shawn's subsequent teenaged rebellion.  He'd stopped listening.   

   
    But it was never too late to teach the kid something new.  And Maddie had asked him to do it anyway, only not exactly in those terms.  Her terms involved touchy-feely notions about coping mechanisms, disassociation, and grounding strategies.  He agreed with all of it, more or less.  He just didn't like using the shrink terminology to describe what basically amounted to getting Shawn to buck up and deal with it. 

    Henry had a plan.    
  
    Step one, get Shawn cleaned up.  Easy enough once Juliet arrived with the things he'd requested.    
  
    Step two, get some food into him.  Tricky but not impossible.  Under great stress Shawn often neglected food, but Henry knew a few tricks and a few snack machine options that might tempt him to eat.  
  
    Step three, get him to talk.  That would be the hardest part.  Neither of them did talking well, not the kind of heart-to-heart required after all that had happened today.  It made them both uncomfortable, even under the best of circumstances.  Henry would bite the bullet if he had to and say what needed to be said, but he couldn't force Shawn to listen or respond.  He just had to find a way to break through to him.  
  
    "Henry?"  
   
    Startled, he spun back toward the door to find the young detective he'd been waiting for standing there with Shawn's ratty old Ghostbusters duffle bag slung over one shoulder.  Damp strands of hair clung to her forehead, and she absently brushed them aside as she smiled at him uncertainly.  How had he missed her arrival?  
  
    "Detective," he began, then corrected himself.  "Juliet, when did you get here?"     
      
    "Just now.  I parked in the overnight lot and came in on that side," she explained as he followed her back into the cooler air of the entryway and took the bag from her.  "I've got Shawn's clothes, plus everything you asked for, except for the shoes.  I couldn't find the ones you mentioned but there was a pair of-"  
  
    "Whatever you brought will be fine," he cut her off as gently as he could.  He couldn't care less about the clothes, as long as they didn't have blood on them.  "Have you heard from Lassiter yet?  Is he bringing Shawn?"  
  
    She brightened as she answered.  "Actually, he just called.  They'll be here in a few minutes."  
  
    "So he got Howard to drop the charges?" Henry asked hopefully.  
  
    "He didn't say.  It was a pretty brief conversation, but I doubt it."  Her expression wary, she added.  "Henry, I just saw Daniel Howard as I came in.  I think he was headed upstairs toward the surgery ward."  
  
    "What the hell is he doing here," he shouted, garnering a shocked look from a soon-to-be patient clutching his left wrist as he came through the door.  Henry held the door for him with an apologetic nod.  Once they were alone again, he continued.  "I thought Howard went straight to the station to file his ridiculous charges against Shawn."  
  
    "I wish I knew.  Carlton hinted that Howard is after some free publicity to boost his career.  Maybe he's even after Caruso's job, but he definitely loves the attention as far as I could tell.  When I saw him, he had several reporters trailing him.  But if he runs into Shawn here at the hospital, it could be trouble."  
  
    Henry had to agree.  Last time his son and the ADA met, Shawn had decked him.  This time Henry might do the honors himself.  "Did your partner ever mention what Howard said to set Shawn off in the first place?"  
      
    Juliet shook her head.  "Only that it was something against Gus."  
  
    Henry grimaced.  That would do it.  Shawn could be a fierce defender where Gus was concerned.  "Alright, so we'll try to keep Shawn out of the way down here until Howard vacates the premises.  That way neither of them can cause more trouble."  
  
    "Shawn's not going to like it."  
  
    That was a massive understatement but Henry didn't see any other way.  He let out a long-suffering sigh as he ran a hand over his face.  A woman came through just then, carrying a wailing child in her arms.  Henry held the doors open for her as well, then gestured to Juliet.  
  
    "Do you mind if we wait outside again?"  Despite the heat and humidity, at least there they'd be out of the way and could talk more privately.  
  
    Juliet nodded and he followed her out to a stone bench that sat to one side of the entrance near a neglected flower bed.  She slipped off her dark, pin-striped jacket and laid it across the back of the bench as she sat.  Henry dropped the bag beside her but didn't join her on the bench, instead resuming his restless pacing.  After a few iterations of the pattern he'd fallen into, she broke into his thoughts.    
  
    "You look just like him when you do that."  
  
    He stopped short and stared at her in confusion.  
      
    "Or he looks just like you, I suppose that's the right way to put it," she said as she nervously toyed with the strap of her handbag.  "Shawn paces a lot, I've noticed.  When he's anxious or worried.  He was pacing today outside the DA's office.  He must get that from you."  
  
    "About the only thing," Henry said with a short bark of a laugh, no trace of humor to it.  For better or worse, he and Shawn had next to nothing in common.      
  
    But Juliet shook her head and smiled in that I-know-something-you-don't-know way she had, something Henry had seen her use on Shawn to great effect.  Now he could understand why.  He wanted to know what she knew.  Henry broke off his pacing and joined her on the bench, hoping for an explanation.    
  
    "You both have the same chin," she joked as he sat down.  "And there's more, the same little crinkle in your forehead when you get angry, the same silly snort when you laugh sometimes.  You both care deeply about your family and friends, and you both have a tough time showing it.  You're both romantic."  
  
    He stopped her there with a raised hand.  "Hold up.  How  would you know whether or not I'm romantic?"  
  
    "I'm a detective," she answered with a wry grin.  But her expression quickly shifted back into worry as she looked out across the vast parking lot, with no sign of Shawn and Lassiter yet.  
  
    "He'll be okay," said Henry, guessing at the direction of her thoughts.    
  
    She snapped back toward him.  "Gus?  I hope so.  It's chaos in there right now.  They brought at least twelve of the most seriously injured here, including Gus.  Triage is in effect, and I...  I don't know how long he'll have to wait for surgery.  I hope you're right.  But Shawn…"  She looked away suddenly as Henry saw moisture pooling in her tired eyes.  
   
    "I meant that Shawn will be okay, but Gus, too," Henry said with more confidence then he felt for either of them - his boys, joined at the hip since they were in diapers thanks to Maddie's long-standing but not quite so close friendship with Winifred Nelson Guster.  If Gus didn't survive his injuries...     
  
    Henry stopped himself from finishing that thought.  He awkwardly patted Juliet on the knee, trying to offer her comfort that he didn't feel himself.    
  
    With nothing of the awkwardness he felt, the lovely young woman patted his hand in return.  "It's just that today," she began, hesitating a moment as she wiped away a threatening tear.  "I've never seen Shawn like that before.  So… disconnected," she finished with a weak shrug.  
  
    "I have," he told her gruffly, pushing to his feet.  Disconnected was as good a word as any to describe how Shawn had been barely a year ago.  After the profiler Mary Lightly died, brutally murdered by the serial killer Mr. Yin, Shawn had tried very hard to brush it off and be his usual ridiculous self.  He still had Yin to deal with, something to focus on.  But what happened next had nearly destroyed him.  Seeing her questioning look, Henry reluctantly explained.    
  
    "The night that Yin abducted you.  You and Abigail both."  She winced a little - whether at the mention of Yin or Shawn's old girlfriend, he couldn't tell. Probably both.  But she squared her shoulders and seemed to shake it off.  She had to know how much Shawn cared about her.  
  
    "He was this distraught?" she asked.  
  
    "Not even Gus could break through to him that night, not until your call came in with the clue."  
  
    "Helpless," she said simply.  Like someone who knew the feeling, Henry realized.  After all, she had been the one tied to a chair suspended ten stories over the city.  
  
    "That's one more thing we Spencer men have in common, I guess, because that's exactly how I felt when Yin had Shawn and Gus inside that house last month."  Juliet had at least been able to get inside with Yang's help, and attempt a rescue.  But Henry could only wait.  Helpless.  Almost hopeless.  He'd punched a few things - not people like Shawn had done.  But he bore the literal scars of that night on his forearm from when he'd shattered a window only to find an impenetrable wall of brick behind the flowered curtain.  
      
    Henry still vividly remembered the day Shawn was born.  Back then, most men still sat in the waiting room while their wives gave birth elsewhere.  But he knew something was wrong.  Too many doctors and nurses scurrying around, too many hushed words and furtive looks for a normal birth.  He could never sit idly by, while his wife and his child might be in danger.  He made it his mission to get inside that room, eventually bullying his way into the delivery room where he stood by Maddie's side, holding her hand all through that perilous breach birth.      

  
    "They're here," Juliet proclaimed as she stood suddenly and pointed out across the lot.  
  
    Henry squinted against the glare of the sun on hundreds of windshields until he could pick out the dark blue Crown Victoria cruising slowly down a distant aisle in search of a place to park.  He imagined Shawn inside that car, fidgety and unfocused, desperate to be by his best friend's side even though he wouldn't be able to see Gus for God only knew how long.  And it suddenly struck him.  
  
    Shawn needed a mission.    
  
    He didn't need to talk it out like Maddie suggested.  As guilty and torn up about this accident as Henry felt, Shawn must feel exponentially worse.  Henry realized that he had more in common with his son then either of them would ever admit.  Spencer men were men of action.  Just like Henry, Shawn needed to feel useful.  He needed to believe that his actions, however small, contributed toward helping Gus.  That was the only way the kid could move forward and begin to cope.    
  
    Step three of Henry's plan suddenly shifted from talking it out to working it out - giving Shawn that mission, that goal to focus his energy on.  Without a clearcut criminal to outwit, it wouldn't be easy.  The man responsible for all this pain and suffering had died without ever having to face the consequences of his actions.  And as badly as Howard had behaved, he was still technically one of the good guys.  
      
    As he waited for Lassiter and his son to finally appear, Henry pondered the problem.  He didn't know yet what Shawn's mission would be, but he would make it his mission to figure something out.  
  



	5. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

The drive took longer than he thought it would, long enough for his tricky little brain to get distracted and switch over into Instant Replay mode. Utterly focused on Gus yet unwilling and unable to rehash anything that happened on Figueroa Street today, Shawn found himself reliving breakfast that morning.

~ ~ ~

“This is ridiculous,” he exclaimed out loud as he slammed his laptop shut with a little more force then he'd intended.

“What's ridiculous?” Gus asked, startling him. He hadn't even noticed his best friend and partner sneak into the office.

“This! This stupid...” He struggled for a quip, the fact that he couldn't instantly think of one telling him he really should have tried for more than the four hours of restless sleep he'd managed last night.

“This tweet from TheRealBillyZane.” He latched onto something believable. “I'm pretty sure the real Real Billy Zane wouldn't be sharing random and completely unfunny haircare tips with his followers, all thirty-six of them.”

“So it's another dead end on the Billy Zane quest,” said Gus, accepting the lie easily as he dropped his bag by his desk and headed into the kitchen area.

Shawn sighed and leaned back to stretch broadly in his chair. Last night he had finally broken down and started to seriously worry about the Howard thing. He'd spent eight fruitless hours, give or take, going over the annoying A.D.A.'s full court history, digging up news articles, opinion pieces, blogs, and even extremely suspect wiki articles on every case he could find. Starting off as a lowly public defender, he had switched over to prosecution and quickly rose through the ranks to his current lofty position. The man's trial record, while hardly superhero material, looked relatively innocuous. Nothing Howard had ever done connected in any way to any of Shawn's cases. He hadn't even been involved with the whole Czarsky thing.

Shawn smirked at his own internal use of the word innocuous, but he kept it to himself. As much as it would have shocked Gus to hear him use it in a sentence correctly, Shawn didn't want Gus to know how worried he felt about Howard's investigation. Today was the big 'fact finding' day at the D.A.'s office with Henry Spencer, as well as his co-workers at the SBPD. He cringed at the thought of what his dad could potentially say about him. With or without revealing his colossal lie, it wouldn't be pretty, Shawn thought. But he didn't want Gus to freak out so he'd downplayed his fears all week.

Gus took that moment to show off his own 'psychic' skills. “You're not worried about the investigation are you? You said all week that it was no big deal.”

“Gus, don't be that piece of pink bubble gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. It's about as big a deal as New Coke, speaking of which, we're out of Coke. Both old and new. And some other stuff too-”

~ ~ ~

“Spencer!”

That gravelly shout snapped Shawn back into the moment. They had arrived, the big car bounding roughly over a wicked speed bump as they pulled into the lot. His stomach roiled at the motion. Fortunately he had nothing left in it to lose.

Lassie pointed toward the main entrance where Juliet stood waiting with his father. Even at this distance., they both looked worried. He didn't want them to worry about him. Only Gus mattered. This morning could not have been the last morning they ever spent together.

Taking one deep breath of air-conditioned coolness to settle his stomach, Shawn spoke. “Could you do me a favor, Lassie?”

“Another one?” Lassiter groused. He parked the car in the first empty space he could find and killed the engine. “I already gave you a moist towelette and my last four cinnamon Altoids. What more do you want from me?”

“Aside from the gift of fresh breath? For which I'm eternally grateful, Lassie, believe me,” he added with real sincerity. "I've got enough going on today without adding 'puke breath' to the list. It's just...” He steeled himself with another deep breath, determined to ask before his chances slipped away completely. “Could you by any chance not mention the whole passing out thing to my dad?”

“Spencer, it's the whole reason we're here.”

“I thought we were here because I blew chunks out the door of your car.”

“That too,” Lassiter agreed. He got out and opened Shawn's door for him, letting in a gust of super-heated air in the process. “Why keep it a secret?”

Shawn slid out of the car into the blinding sunshine but still found Lassiter's eyes behind those stylish dark shades the taller man wore. “Remember how he acted after I got shot? He's already in full-on Papa Bear mode. If he thinks I...”

“Fainted.”

“Passed out.”

“Same difference,” Lassiter shot back with a smirk.

“He'll be all over me like Polomolu on a quarterback,” Shawn finished. He held up his cuffed hands before Lassiter could interrupt again, ignoring a twinge in his shoulder as he did so. “Please don't embarrass yourself by asking who Troy Polomalu is. Just know that my dad will want to have me admitted for observation. And since technically he's my boss at the station, and I'm in custody anyway, he can probably do it.”

Lassiter's eyes narrowed slightly, like he thought it wasn't such a bad idea. He gave in to the heat and shrugged off his suit coat, slinging it over one arm. “I could care less who Polo-whatever is. Make your point, Spencer.”

“I do have one. My point is that if I'm stuck in a room somewhere being observed, and presumably still under custody, then they won't let me go see Gus.” Shawn held Lassie's gaze as he spoke, trying to put every ounce of himself out there so the detective would for once in his life take him at face value. Not that he ever deserved such treatment before, but he desperately needed it now. He needed to be there for Gus. “Please.”

Lassiter's scowl deepened but finally he nodded. “Fine. I won't mention it. But if he asks me directly, I'll have to tell him.”

“Deal.” Shawn agree quickly, holding out both handcuffed hands as he offered the detective a fist-bump of friendship. Lassiter stared down at that gesture for a long moment, one eyebrow arched in apparent confusion or maybe disbelief. Possibly indigestion. Then he tossed his jacket over both Shawn's hands and the handcuffs, hiding them.

“It's too damned hot to stand out here jabbering, Spencer. Let's get inside.”

Shawn knew they weren't fooling anybody with the whole jacket-over-the-handcuffs bit. It totally clashed with his plaid shirt. But Lassiter was being more than decent to him right now, probably to make up for arresting him in the first place. It meant a lot to Shawn all the same. The jacket certainly didn't fool either Juliet or his dad.

Jules met them halfway across the lot and immediately threw her arms around Shawn in an awkward hug, since he couldn't return it. His left shoulder protested once again, and he wondered briefly what he'd done to it. She link her arm with his as they headed toward the entrance, making the whole handcuff thing less obvious to anyone looking. But Shawn didn't miss how Henry hung back to 'talk' with Lassiter, and probably give him a very quiet follow-up lecture.

“Have you heard anything yet?” he quietly asked Juliet as they walked in.

She shook her head, eyes cast downward. “He's in critical but stable condition, and still in pre-op as far as I know. His parents are with him, but no one else will be able to see him until after his surgery, whenever that is.”

Shawn nodded his understanding and offered Juliet a hopeful smile. “Stable sounds good. I'll take stable.”

Once inside, Shawn's father led them to the big check-in desk where Lassiter flashed his badge to get a nurse's attention. He had to do more than flash it, practically holding it under the young woman's nose before she acknowledged him and started preliminary work on Shawn.

One blood pressure, pulse and temperature check later and they were sent back to the waiting room until Shawn's turn came. Since the waiting room was still as packed as ever, he calculated a wait of at least two hours for a case as entirely non-life-threatening as his. That should give them plenty of time to go upstairs and get an update on Gus, maybe even peek in on him in pre-op. If the staff allowed it, of course. And if Gus's parents allowed it. They probably hated him right now, Shawn thought. He wouldn't blame them if they did.

But back out in the cool quiet of the hallway, he found himself herded toward the nearest bathroom.

“Hey!” Shawn protested. “Aren't we going to check on Gus?”

“Not looking like this we aren't. Let's get cleaned up. Lassiter?” Henry gestured toward Shawn's arms where the jacket still cloaked his handcuffs. The metal had warmed to the point where he could barely feel them against his skin, but the pinch at his wrists constantly reminded him of his status as a prisoner.

As Lassiter took back his jacket and undid the cuffs, Henry put one strong hand on Shawn's left bicep just above the elbow and squeezed. He didn't know what possessed his dad to grab his arm like that. Did he look that unsteady on his feet that he had to be propped up? Or maybe it was supposed to be some kind of comforting gesture. Whatever it was meant to be, it hurt like hell.

He yelped. He couldn't hold it in. In an instant, his dad had his shirt sleeve pulled up and eyeballed his arm like it was the morning paper. Even Shawn was surprised to see the darkening bruises encircled his own arm, looking suspiciously like four fingers and a thumb. Henry glared at Lassiter.

“You did this?” He said, more accusation then question, with a follow-up punch to the gut. “How many times do you plan on hurting my son today, Detective?”

It was a solid hit, one that Shawn would have applauded under other circumstances. The level of anger radiating off Henry Spencer at that moment was so high that Lassie actually took a step back. That's when Shawn stepped in. He couldn't let the big guy take the heat for this one. His memory might be a little cloudy but he had a pretty good idea about where the bruises had come from.

“Henry, I can explain,” Lassiter began.

“I can explain better.” Shawn cut in. “It was an accident, Dad. When my hands were cuffed behind me I tripped. He caught me. No biggie.”

Henry barely took his eyes off Lassiter during his whole explanation. When Shawn finished, he turned back to the taller man. “Is that what happened, Lassiter?”

“I just told you what happened.”

“I want to hear it from him. Well, Detective?”

Lassiter shifted from foot to foot like a guilty school boy. “I may have had to grab Shawn very quickly to keep him from taking a nose-dive into the street, sure.”

Shawn let out a breath, grateful that Lassiter had kept his secret. Only that little sigh gave him away.

His dad shot him a furious look before refocusing on Lassie. “You may have?”

“Possibly.” Lassiter shrugged uncomfortably.

“Possibly,” Henry repeated, his voice flat. “And why might that have happened in the first place?”

Shawn held his breath again. Please don't cave, please don't cave, please don't cave.

“It could be related to your son puking his guts up.” Shawn sighed again in relief until Lassiter unnecessarily added. “And also he may have passed out. Slightly.”

"Crap." That did not go at all like he planned.

“Slightly? What the hell did you do to my son?”

Lassiter's face and ears tinged red as he defended himself. “I got him here, Henry! The only lawful circumstance that would allow me to do that was if Shawn needed medical attention.”

“So you tried to twist his arm off?” As their voices amped up, Shawn checked the hallway up and down. So far they were in the clear, but now that the cat was out of the bag on the fainting thing he turned to his dad.

“You're not going to have me admitted, are you?”

“What? No, of course not!” Henry's brow furrowed in something between a scowl and a wince. “If I did that, you'd never get up to see Gus. But the doctor will need to check out that arm now too. Dammit kid, don't keep things from me when I'm trying to help you!”

Shawn felt a brief flash of shame at his reproach. “It's just... really hard to know how you'll react when you're in full-on Papa Bear mode. And I have to get to Gus. No matter what. I should be there now.”

“I know. We'll get you there.” His dad smiled at him strangely, his expression shifting from fatherly affection to fury in the space of a heartbeat. Shawn frowned at the change until he realized that Henry's gaze had shifted to something over his shoulder. He heard a distant voice oozing with pomp-assery.

Before he could turn, and bruised or not, both men suddenly grabbed Shawn by the arms and forcibly propelled him into the nearest room. The duffel bag was tossed in after him. When the motion-sensing lights flicked on, he found himself in a small bathroom – toilet, sink and mirror.

“Stay in there.” He heard his father's muffled command. As much as he rebelled against orders of any kind, this one he would follow. That was ADA Danny Howard out there, the one guy who could blow his plans all to hell.

Maybe he hadn't seen Shawn. Maybe just this once today, he'd have some good luck for a change. In the meantime, he'd need to make himself presentable.

Glimpsing himself in the small mirror, Shawn flinched away. He didn't need that visual reminder of just how much of Gus's blood he now wore, or how freaked out he looked. New clothes wouldn't erase that image of himself. Nothing ever would. But he knew he couldn't face the Gusters looking like this.

One kicked shoe nearly landed in the toilet. The other dropped neatly into his intended target, the trash can. He peeled off one sweaty sock and had balanced awkwardly against the sink to get the other one off when a shout from the hallway stopped him short.

Another shout brought Shawn to the door. Howard had seen him after all. Going out there would be a bad idea, even worse than slugging the ADA in the first place, no matter what he said about Gus. Instead Shawn pressed his ear against the cold metal and strained to make out the rush of angry words being exchanged out there.

“... why in hell ...”

That was the first thing he made out, obviously Howard wondering why Shawn wasn't behind bars by now.

“... medical situation ... I've got a responsibility to ..."

And there was Lassiter stepping up to the plate. That was barely a bunt of a comeback, Shawn thought, but at least he got on base. They must have moved closer to the door because suddenly he could hear them all much clearer, his father included.

“What's your beef with my son anyway, Howard?"

Beef. Classic Henry Spencer line, Shawn thought. He pressed his ear tighter to the door, straining to hear the answer. But instead of a response from the ADA, he got Lassiter's follow-up question.

"What is it? Just trying to make a name for yourself? You've always craved the spotlight and it must irk you to no end to passed over for Caruso, to still be stuck working as his assistant when it should have been the other way around. Or maybe that fiance' of yours put you up to it, huh? I heard she's rich enough to make her pretty, and she's just as much of a glory hound as you are."

"You leave Kitty out of this, Carl! She's got nothing to do with any of this."

Kitty? Shawn had never in his life met a woman named Kitty. H was sure he'd remember it if he did, and laugh about it for years to afterward. But the way Howard leapt to her defense so adamantly was telling.

"You want to crash and burn with that con artist of a psychic? That's your choice. If you won't take that man to jail, then maybe a call to the Sheriff's office will net me somebody who will."

"I have authorization to be here."

"Bull shit. I'm getting Chief Vick on the phone right now. You'll regret-"

"I already called her. She's on the line. Here."

Ah, so that's why Lassie had been so quiet during Howard's rant. He was phoning a friend. It got really quiet out in the hallway, and Shawn pictured the Chief dropping the verbal hammer on the ADA over the phone. Sweet.

"Fine," Howard said at last. "I have some friends at this hospital. You take him straight back to Urgent Care and I'll make sure someone checks Spencer out right away. Then you can put that loser behind bars where he belongs."

Shawn hadn't realized he was holding his breath until the ADA's words knocked the air out of him. He'd gotten so close, but it had all been for nothing. Turning away, he slumped against the narrow strip of wall behind the door and slid down to floor. With his injured arm balanced atop one raised knee, Shawn let his head fall back against the cool white tile and stared up at the ceiling. They were out of options, and clean out of luck.

The bathroom door swung inward, briefly trapping him in the corner as somebody entered. He didn't care. When the door closed again, his dad looked down on him, his expression about as bleak as Shawn felt. There were no words, nothing to be said on either side. Nothing to be done.

It was all for nothing.

~ ~ ~

Shawn glanced up from his brooding thoughts, on the general crapiness of his current situation and how to fix it, to see his partner in crime-solving standing at the open refrigerator door, his head stuck so far inside that his sweet chocolate head was in serious danger of frostbite. Considering how few foodstuffs currently occupied the fridge, he looked extra silly standing there.

“If you're looking for the milk, we're fresh out. Cereal, too.” Gus pulled back and straightened up to glare at him as he continued. “If you're looking for the bread or the butter or the juice or your leftovers from Mario's last night, we're out of that, too. Somebody forgot to go shopping yesterday.”

“That somebody was you, Shawn. You forgot. It was your turn. And you ate my pizza from Mario's? That was going to be my breakfast!”

“Of course I didn't eat it, Gus. Don't be a moldy old bagel covered with cream cheese. I gave your leftovers to Lothar.”

“Wait, you're telling me you gave my pizza to your imaginary Great Dane? Are you still on that?”

“He's not imaginary, Gus. He just doesn't exist yet. And anyway, I meant the other Lothar, that Swedish surfer kid with the blonde dreadlocks who hangs around the pier.”

“He's not a surfer and he's not Swedish, Shawn. That kid's just a panhandler looking for handouts.”

“Yeah, well I handed out your pizza to him and he ate it right up.”

“Why didn't you give him the leftovers from your pizza?”

Shawn shrugged. “Lothar's a vegetarian. The pineapple would have been okay but I'm pretty sure ham is against his religion.”

“Vegetarianism isn't a religion, Shawn,” Gus said. “He could've picked the ham off if he had a problem with it. He conned you.”

“Well I think he's homeless.”

“Well I think you're gullible.”

“You think I'm gullible? Really? Dude, that's like Potsie calling the Fonz a nerd.”

“Wow. A Happy Days reference? When Grifters was clearly on the table? You're really off your game this morning, Shawn. What did you have for breakfast?”

“Moldy old bagel with the last of the cream cheese,” Shawn joked. At Gus's dirty look he added. “Don't worry, I scraped the mold off.”

But Gus was mad. In retaliation, he snatched the open newspaper spread out across Shawn's desk revealing his true breakfast – a bowl of Apple Jacks and milk. The last of each item, they had combined into a soggy lump of orange with a little warm milk at the bottom of the bowl. Shawn felt just as surprised at the sudden reveal as Gus looked. He'd completely forgotten about eating his breakfast.

“Look, you can have my pizza. All of it,” Shawn offered, trying to appease him. But Gus turned away in disgust. “Seriously. I'm not really all that hungry.”

“Sure. Like I believe that,” said Gus.

~ ~ ~

Gus should have believed him. Shawn's stomach churned at the thought of food.

Everything had passed by him in a blur as his instant replay memory crept closer to the stuff he most wanted to avoid. Getting dressed has been an ordeal. Soon the cuffs were snapped back on and he was lead out into the hallway, paraded past Howard's cavalcade of reporters, and shoved into an exam room to be poked and prodded by an adolescent doctor who must be hoping the wealthy Assistant DA would come through on his student loans for this 'favor'.

Despite the haze of flashback memories hovering over him, he had managed to answer every one of the Boy Wonder's annoying questions. Staying with his memories was easier than dealing with the fact that memories might be all he'd ever get from now on.

One by one, they left him. The doctor went to see other patients. Long before that, Lassiter had excused himself to report back to the chief, and probably to grab a sandwich from the cafeteria. Even Henry had drifted away at some point he couldn't quite remember.

He sat on the edge of the bed in this sterile, windowless room, and wondered again just what he'd done to piss off Howard so much – aside from punching him in the face. There had to be a reason. If he could find it, maybe he could use it to figure out a way to stay here at the hospital with Gus.

Shawn had come up with a fall-back plan, sort of a last resort, but even he knew it wasn't his best idea ever.

The key had been so very easy to lift. Thanks to his recent association with Lothar the Swedish Rastafarian surfer, who really was a con artist as well as a first-class pickpocket, Shawn had honed his own technique to perfection. A stumble as he stood up from the exam table, almost entirely not accidental, had sent him bumping into Lassiter. Despite his cuffs, Shawn retrieved the key from the detective's pocket with a touch so light that even the angels would be jealous.

He flipped it across the back of his fingers like a coin, over and over again while he weighed his options. Besides escape, there were no other options. He had gotten this close to Gus, yet wouldn't be able to stay at the hospital or even see him agin, however briefly. If Howard got his way, Shawn would have to go to jail for real.

But if he escaped...

Gus hadn't even gone into surgery yet, as far as he knew. He'd have to hide somewhere in the hospital until Gus got a room. He didn't have his fake beard with him, no Soup Can Sam option to fall back on. Then he had to find the room without anybody finding him first, and then... Then the plan, constructed of nothing but if's and maybe's, fell apart completely.

There had to be another way to make Howard let him stay. The man had it in for him, no doubt about that. There were puzzle pieces coming together in his mind. If only he had a little more time, and a little more information, he was sure he'd be able to 'divine' Howard's motivation, once he had that he'd be able to fight back.

The quick triple-rap on the door frame startled him so much he almost lost the key, fumbling for it as it rolled across his knuckle. He palmed it quickly and tried to act cool.

"Hey, Shawn. I brought you something to eat," Henry said as he eased into the room with an armload of 'somethings' to eat - a sandwich, crackers, chips, cookies, a bottle of 7-Up, and even a monster-sized Snickers bar. "And I brought company, too. Hope you don't mind."

"Company?" He repeated the word dully. Unless he'd brought Gus with him, miraculously cured and ready to go home, Shawn didn't really want to see anyone. But the young woman in blue scrubs had already entered. She hung back by the door and cautiously waved at him, her dark eyes smiling beneath a heavy fringe of curly black bangs.

"You're the woman," he said, pushing off from the from the bed in instant recognition. "You... You helped Gus."

"I did my best. My name is Anita DeSantos. I was on my way to work, here, when I happened on the accident. As a nurse, it's my duty to help."

"You did. Thank you," he said, shaking her hand eagerly.

Anita nodded, lips pressed together and face reflecting a wealth of modesty. She wasn't used to that kind of praise, he could tell. She cleared her throat. "Your father ran into me a little while ago and asked me to come back with him."

"Is Gus okay? Did he have surgery yet? Is it bad? It is good? Come on, I really think that under the circumstances, I count as family, and-"

She held up both hands to stop him. "Take a breath, Shawn. I don't work in that department, so I don't know much. But I do know that Mr. Guster hasn't been taken into surgery yet. They're waiting on a shipment of blood."

Shawn frowned. "You've got a blood bank, I know. I've been there. Plenty of blood. And if you need more, you can have some of mine," he offered as he awkwardly pushed up his sleeves.

Anita stared down at his arms, and he thought the handcuffs must be scaring her off, but she surprised him. "Actually, I work in the Blood Bank, and you have excellent veins! Mid-summer is our slow season, and all the local hospitals are all dealing with blood shortages. Don't worry, though. Your friend's surgery is scheduled within the hour.

"Mr. Guster has a very rare type, you see - B negative. They just need to be sure they have sufficient quantities of B neg and O neg on hand before the proceed with his operation, as well as two others who were seriously injured in the bus crash. They're waiting on transports coming in from Summerland and Goleta before they begin. We're also staging an emergency blood drive right now downstairs."

"Lassie has type O negative!" Shawn exclaimed. "He'll give, I guarantee. And I don't know my blood type - general aversion to pointy things usually keeps me out of these places - but whatever octane it is, you can have it. All of it!."

"A pint would be sufficient, Mr. Spencer. I'll see you soon." With another smile directed more toward Henry then to him, Anita disappeared out the door.

Of course, his dad would have to drop the hammer on him. "Shawn, you can't give blood."

"Don't tell me that, Dad! Not now."

"If you'd let me finish, kid. You can't give blood on an empty stomach. I already cleared it with Lassiter, who is a regular donor anyway. He's giving blood. So am I. Heck, half of the police department will be coming in to donate. He just needs to get the Chief's okay for you. They all care about Gus, and they want to help all the other people hurt by that drunken lunatic. Here. Eat!"

Shawn deftly snatched the tossed sandwich out of the air, then sat back on the exam table to unwrap it. Turkey and Provolone cheese on wheat. His stomach growled. Maybe he was hungrier than he thought.

"What about Howard?" he asked around a mouthful of deliciousness. "He said that if Lassie wouldn't put me in jail, he'd call in the Sheriff's office to do it."

"Howard is full of shit." Henry opened the chips and the soda and placed them within Shawn's arm-reach. "We'll find a way around him so you can give blood. I know it's not the same as getting up there to see Gus..."

"It's helping him though."

"That's right."

"And I'm not giving up on seeing Gus."

"I never thought you would." Henry took a seat in the doctor's cushy wheeled stool and rolled a little closer. "But if you're thinking about using that key you stole from Lassiter, that's not the way. I thought I taught you better than that!

"How did you-"

"I'm a cop, kid. Pickpockets can't fool me and neither can you, with that fake bump and grab. You're lucky I didn't call you out on it the moment I saw you."

Shawn pulled out the key and stared at it for a moment. "It was never that great an idea anyway. I'll put it back."

"Damn straight, you will. And for the record, that was the worst idea you've ever had."

"Really? Worse than when I invented the three-way mirror for the police department? You know, I designed it so that you could watch them, watching you, watching them."

"True, that's much worse. Just keep eating and listen up. Howard's got a weakness. He loves the spotlight, right? We can use that to our advantage."

~ ~ ~

“Let's get some real breakfast.”

Normally he would have taken him up on the offer, but this morning he was just too preoccupied to think much about food. “Not hungry,” said Shawn, which garnered him a suspicious look from Gus.

“You and I both know that's not even possible. Unless...” He walked up to Shawn's computer and flipped it open, revealing a list of court dates and defendants.

“You're still on that assistant DA? I thought you said he wasn't a problem, you said to play cool and ignore him. That's what you said even last night.”

That was the plan, but after he left Gus's apartment the plan had changed. Shawn sighed – maybe a little over-dramatically but totally warranted, he thought. “I just don't get this guy, Gus. Why does he hate me?”

“Lots of people hate you, Shawn.”

“True, but I know why they all hate me. Either I put them behind bars, stole their girlfriend, or ridiculed their hideous tie – sometimes all three at once. But I don't know what this guy has against me.” Shawn pushed away from his desk, got up and started pacing down the length of the room, getting madder with every step.

“You know what,” he said as he turned to face Gus again. “I hate him back. I hate him more than anything. More than life itself.”

Gus smirked as he leaned against the edge of his own desk. “That's not how the saying goes, Shawn. People say they love or cherish something more than life itself.” He held up a hand before Shawn could object. “And I seriously doubt that you've heard that one both ways. Besides, you couldn't possibly hate your life that much. Unless you're contemplating suicide right now, I have to infer that you really don't hate Howard all that much.”

“I do hate him. Tons! And what does mink have to do with this?”

“What?”

“You said something about needing to be in fur.”

“I'm inferring,” he said, over-enunciating the word to ridiculous proportions as only Gus could. Shawn started to feel better as his best friend went on. “That's one word, not two. And an E, not a U.”

“Gus, that rhymes! You're a poet and you didn't even know it!”

“Shawn!” Gus always hated that old joke but that never stopped Shawn from delivering the cheesy punchline, not once in all these years. He finished with a flourish and a gleeful grin. “I can tell by your feet. They're Longfellows!”

“Oh. My. God.” Gus pronounced each word with the maximum amount of disgust possible. “Can we just go get some breakfast now? Please?”

“No can do, buddy. We gotta get to the DA's office.”

“Where everybody went to give their depositions? You're banned. We both are.”

“Come on, you're driving. And Lunch is on me. Besides, we're not going in. I just need to talk to my dad,” Shawn lied. He really needed to talk to that jackass Howard and make the man like him, darn it.

~ ~ ~

That clearly was never going to happen now. Shawn had thought that the only way to get the man off his back and away from Gus was to 'prove' his psychic-ness. Instead of worrying about Howard, maybe he should have paid more attention to Gus. The stylish new shirt, the confident attitude...

Gus had news. He'd been waiting for Shawn to notice so he could share. A promotion, a date, something good that Shawn had selfishly ignored because he was too caught up in his own little drama. That thought snapped Shawn out of the memories he kept dwelling on. He had to focus on now. When Lassiter finally came back with the okay from Vick, he was ready.

"Let's do this thing," he said, polishing off the last of the Snickers bar as he got to his feet, a lot less wobbly than he'd been before.

"The Chief set one condition," said the detective. "We need to inform Howard first. And get his approval."

“What? That's two conditions!”

"He's right outside with O'Hara and his entourage." Lassiter straightened his tie and smoothed a hand lightly across the top of his graying hair. "With a bunch of reporters in tow, as usual. O'Hara and I will talk to him. You hang back with your father, you got that?"

Shawn shot his dad a look. Henry quirked an eyebrow and nodded. Their plan was not Lassie's plan, but it would work."

"Got it," he said. Getting it was not the same thing as agreeing to it. Maybe someday Lassie would figure that out. But hopefully not today.

"Let's go."

Almost as soon as they were back out in the waiting room, Howard rushed to confront Lassiter, with Juliet and Henry mixing it up, too. This was Shawn's chance. He quickly edged around the arguing group and stopped short in front of the half dozen reporters that Howard had collected.

Flashbulbs blinded him for a second. A microphone was shoved in his face as a glaring spotlight kicked in. "Mr. Spencer, could you tell us what made you assault Assistant District Attorney Daniel Howard earlier today? Was it in reaction to the hit-and-run that injured your partner? How do you feel about being unable to-"

Shawn held up his hands against the barrage of questions. He cleared his throat and looked directly into the nearest camera. He could tell it was a live feed, no take-backs or do-overs. "I'm not here to talk about that. I want the good people of Santa Barbara to know that because of today's bus tragedy, there are a lot of good people who need blood right now. And I'm told by an employee of the Blood Bank right here in the hospital that there's a shortage. So they are staging a blood drive, right here. I want to ask everyone who is available and eligible to come down and give blood. If not today, then soon.

"I'm heading down to give blood. So is my father Henry Spencer, Liaison Officer for the SBPD, so is Head Detective Carlton Lassiter and his lovely and charming partner Detective Juliet O'Hara. We all need to come together during this tragic time. That's why ADA Howard has graciously permitted me to donate, and will also be giving blood. Right now. Isn't that right, Mr. Howard?"

He turned and pointed. Instantly, the reporters switched their focus back to Howard. He was literally put on the spot in front of all the camera and reporters he loved so much. Had he even heard what Shawn said?

He cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders, trying to project an air of authority. "Of course, we need to... put aside our differences. And come together to... help the community. Every pint of blood counts.” Fully invested now in pumping out a line of bullshit, Howard could only spare an calculating glance in their direction as Shawn, Lassie, Jules and Henry walked away. He didn't look happy, and that made Shawn very happy.

In the corridor, Henry pointed out some random object sitting on the admissions desk. And while Lassiter looked that way, gullible as all hell, Shawn slipped the key back into his jacket pocket. Teamwork. He was used to Gus being on his team. But it was nice to know that his dad could fill in in a pinch.

He was just happy to finally be able to help Gus. In maybe more ways than one, because not only could he give blood, but he'd bought himself more time. Time to find some ammo against Howard and start shooting back. It had to be something personal that set the ADA against him. Howard had a history with Lassiter, plus a mysterious and wealthy fiance named Kitty. He giggled again at her name. These were places to start at least.

Whatever happened, Shawn did not intend to leave this building until he knew Gus was going to be okay.


	6. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

Carlton Lassiter kept a sharp eye on his partner as she paced in a circle in the corner of the somber waiting room, her phone pressed tight to her ear. So far it was impossible to tell whether the news was good or bad. For Spencer's sake... For everyone's sake, he hoped that Guster would pull through alright.

Spencer's televised plea for blood donations, he thought, must have finally penetrated through the thick haze of summer listlessness hanging over the city. Yes, they were all horrified by the bus accident – appalled but unmoving. He had given them the option to actually get up off their collective ass and help in some way. A steady trickle of civic-minded Santa Barbarans were arriving to join the off-duty officers and hospital staff already waiting their turn to give.

“Does it hurt?” Spencer asked. “The needle?”

Carlton didn't believe in sugar-coating reality. “Yes, it hurts.”

“A lot?”

“No. Not a lot.”

“Exactly how big is the needle? Is it Hulk Hogan big or like... Andre the Giant big? Wait! No. Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know.”

Spencer fell quiet for a few glorious moments, his eyes tracking O'Hara just as keenly as Carlton was. “Lassie, what if they reject me?” he asked quietly. Something in his tone made the detective turn to gauge his expression. Almost Yin-level serious, he judged with some surprise, but it only held for a moment. Then the incessant rambling resumed.

“Dad said there were tests. What kind of tests, Lassie? Is there any math involved? If it's math, I'm doomed. Or Geography.”

He sighed. “There's no math or geography, Spencer.”

“Then what's on the test? Pop Music? U.S. Presidents? Potent Potables? Things that start B?”

“This is a blood bank, not a game show. You'll be fine.” Not gifted with a great deal of patience, what little Lassiter did posses was being thoroughly tested.

“If it was a quiz on... I don't know, the filmography of the Brat Pack, I'd totally ace it. Estevez, Ringwald... Moore, Nelson, Downey, Spader, Hall.” He rattled them off on his fingers, one by one. “Heck even C. Thomas Howell! But not Charlie Sheen though. Dude's gone off the creep end lately.”

“It's not that kind of a test, Spencer!” Carlton dropped his voice as dozens of people turned to stare at him. “They just ask you a few questions pertaining to your general health, any medication your taking and your...” He stopped himself just shy of uttering the words 'sexual history', shuddering at the thought of the bullet he'd just dodged. He really didn't want to open that can of worms with the man who was dating his partner.

“My what? What else? I really need to pass this thing, Lassie. Come on, spill it! Help me out.”

“Just... shut up and eat a cookie,” he ordered, tossing him the last one from the pack Henry had left for them.

The snap of a phone flipping shut brought both of them instantly to their feet. O'Hara had finally wrapped up her call and she paced over to meet them with an expression her partner judged to be more positive than negative.

“Gus is going into surgery right now,” she announced, reaching out to squeeze her boyfriend's hand.

“That's good news, right?”

But it wasn't really, Carlton could tell. “They can't wait any longer.” He deduced, and her grim look confirmed it.

“The blood drive is even more critical now than ever, and Carlton, they'll need every pint of blood to get through all the emergency surgeries needed today, especially yours.

“Looks like I'm up,” she said as Anita waved to her from the short hallway. She waved back, holding up one finger. “You'll be okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Carlton answered before he realized her question was directed at the other man. Their hands, like their eyes, were still locked together. He chose not to notice. Reclaimed his chair and his gun magazine again, he steadfastly ignored any overly sentimental language or kissy noises happening above his head.

“Okay, I'd better go. See you at the snack table after?”

“It's a date,” Spencer quipped as he waved her goodbye, then slumped into his seat beside Carlton.

He didn't say anything for a long while. At first the detective reveled in the silence and the chance to finish this article on sport pistols. But it was so unlike the psychic to be either quiet or still that Carlton finally looked up and studied the man.

His head was tilted up toward the ceiling, one cuffed hand raised to his temple, eyes closed and a slight smile teasing at his lips.

“Spencer?” No reaction. He tried again. “Shawn?”

Spencer opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the ceiling before refocusing on Lassiter.

“What is it? A... vision thing?”

Spencer shook his head slightly and point up. “Sort of, I guess. I just... I can sense him, three floors straight up and eleven, make that twelve feet to the northeast. We're less than fifty feet apart right now, Lassie.” His smile faded as he muttered. “This sucks.”

“Even if you were up there, you wouldn't be able to see him while he's in surgery.”

“Not the point. I should be with him. If it was your partner going into surgery right now, where would you be?”

That was an easy question, one he'd thought about many times before. “I'd be out catching the bastard who put her there.”

“Ah, but the bastard du jour is already toast. Literally toasted.”

Carlton grimaced at the thought. Not that the guy didn't get what he deserved. If anything, he got off easy, burning to death in the wreck of his own jeep. It had a certain poetic justice to it. And yet it wasn't nearly enough punishment in his book for the criminally reckless behavior that led him to injure so many others in the process of killing himself.

Carlton said, “Leary might be dead, but I swear to God, I'm going after every last person who enabled that drunken lunatic to get behind the wheel today. I'll lay odds this wasn't his first time.”

“Leary?” Spencer repeated the name, frowning.

“Martin Leary, as far as we know. That's the name the jeep is registered to, but it'll take a while to make an official ID on what's left of him.”

“Multiple offender?”

He nodded sharply. “First timers usually don't try to run.”

Carlton could practically see the wheels turning in the psychic's head. He reflexively patted his pockets for the key to his handcuffs. Spencer would be looking for justice just as much as he would. He moved the topic back to Guster.

“But you're right. I'd be at my partner's side or as close as possible.”

“Exactly. Gus was right by my side back when I got poisoned.”

“I heard about that, Spencer. Everybody knows you were only barely poisoned.”

He slumped back in his chair with a sigh. “Does everybody also know that I passed out three times on the way to the hospital, or that I puked all over the floor of the blueberry? Do they know that I had to have my stomach pumped and then waited in fear all night long before the doc finally gave me that crap diagnosis? Barely or not, it was scary as hell. But Gus stuck it out and stayed with me the whole time.”

Carlton didn't know any of that. “Point taken.”

“Are we ready?” Anita had returned with another nurse.

“Looks like we're up, Spencer,” Carlton said as he pulled out his key and undid the consultant's cuffs. “I'm trusting you here, so don't be an idiot.”

Rubbing his wrists, the shorter man looked up with an innocent expression that he could see right through. “Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't dream of trying to escape.”

“Yes, you would. You probably already have. Just promise you won't leave the Blood Bank without me or O'Hara.”

“And that'll be good enough?”

Carlton quirked an eyebrow at him. “You're already in enough trouble. Don't make more for yourself. Or we could stay cuffed the whole time. Your choice.”

Spencer drew an 'x' across his chest. “I promise, Lassie. Now get in there and start giving up that oh-so-negative sauce you're so full of. Gus needs every drop you can spare. And then some.”

Carlton turned to Anita, the Puerto Rican angel that had helped them all so much already today. “Keep an eye on him, will you?”

She smiled warmly. “I'll be taking care of Shawn's donation personally.”

Knowing he'd done just about all he could to get Spencer through the process, he nodded his thanks and followed the other nurse down the hall.

*****

“You'll feel a slight pinch.”

Henry squeezed hard on the gray foam shark they'd given him and watched the needle slip smoothly into the blue vein at the crook of his elbow. He had deliberately gone first so that he could be finished and waiting for Shawn at the end of the process. That's when his son would have to face the hard reality of his situation and head to the station to finally get booked. That was also the moment Shawn would most likely try another stupid stunt to stall or escape, and he had to be ready for it.

But in the meantime...

“Didn't hurt a bit,” he said. “Nice work.”

He grinned up at his technician, noticing for the first time that she was quite an attractive woman. Tall and blonde and exactly his type. He had so much weighing on his mind today. First the whole fact-finding crap with Howard, and then worrying about Shawn and Gus. Lying on this couch was the first chance he'd had all day to just sit and rest and have a minute to himself. So if he flirted a little bit with – he squinted at her name badge – Sonja while she drew his blood, what harm could it do.

“Sonja. That's a beautiful name.”

“Thank you,” she replied, leaning in a little as she adjusted his tubes. “And you have excellent veins. According to your paperwork you have blood type A positive. That means that you're very sensible, reserved and responsible.”

“Is that so?” Henry believed in that blood type crap just about as much as he believed in psychics. But since that's how his son made a living, he was used to playing along. Besides, he had nothing better to do. And she was really hot. “Tell me more.”

“Well, it can also mean you're a bit stubborn, maybe a little tense? You do look tense. And your blood pressure was borderline.”

“It hasn't been a great day, Sonja. My son's best friend was hurt today in the accident downtown.”

“Oh! I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“It's alright.” He didn't want her sympathy. Maybe that bit about A types being reserved was true, if nothing else. “Tell me about the other types,” he said to distract her.

“Type Bs are supposed to be wild and creative, strong and passionate. I'm B positive, by the way,” she said with a flirtatious wink.

He winked back. “Good to know.”

“Let's see. Type O is suppsed to be confident, independent, optimistic, and very intuitive.”

“Now that's interesting.” While Detective Lassiter had rare O negative blood, he recalled that Shawn had the most common blood type of all, O positive. They both fit that description but in different ways, like two sides of the same coin. Maybe that's why they were perpetually at odds with each other.

“As for ABs,” Sonja began as she checked his bag. But she didn't finish, suddenly distracted by something across the room. He followed her gaze to a bed in the far corner where ADA Howard was just getting skewered by another tech.  
“You know him?”

Sonja nodded. “Danny? Sure. He used to be a regular, until last year. As a matter of fact he's got Type AB blood, which is one of the rarest types out there. Type ABs are supposed to be rational and sociable and controlled. But none of that fits Danny. Instead he's got all the worst traits of the type. He's critical, indecisive... and kind of a royal jerk if you ask me.”

Henry's instincts screamed at him to press for more information. If he could dig up something on Howard, maybe he could pressure the 'royal jerk' into leaving Shawn and Gus alone. “He still lives in the area. Why did he stop giving blood?”

“We have our theories...” She trailed off as she looked around cautiously. “But I shouldn't gossip.”

“It's not gossip,” he said smoothly, smiling at her with encouragement. “I'm just having a pleasant conversation with a beautiful woman.”

She hesitated, clearly flattered. “Well, if you insist, Mr. Spencer, I'll tell you all about it.”

“Please. Call me Henry.”

 

 

 

“Have you been or are you currently pregnant?”

Juliet wasn't as regular in her giving as Carlton. But her B+ blood had helped many a patient here at the hospital. She knew the routine by rote, and she was eager to get through this ordeal and get back to Shawn before he decided to do something rash. Left to his own devices, Shawn had a habit of making impulsive decisions, and getting into dangerous situations as a result. He'd already punched an assistant District Attorney while she was out of range. Juliet intended not leave him alone again for the rest of the day.

She had moved quickly through the mandatory questions, both those on the computerized questionnaire and the ones given in person by the nurse.

“Are you feeling well today?” - “Have you taken aspirin or anything containing aspirin?” - “Are you currently taking antibiotics or other medications?” - “Have you read the educational materials?”

But that one question tripped her up as it had never done before.

Pregnant?

“No,” she answered automatically. That was right, wasn't it?

The technician started on the next question. But Juliet suddenly held up a hand to stop him.

“Wait.... No.” She shook her head, feeling silly. Of course, she couldn't be pregnant. “Well... Maybe? No, that's not possible. I don't think. I mean, we use protection, but...”

“We'll test for it.”

“You'll test?” Why did that suddenly make her feel even more anxious? “Look, I'm probably not pregnant. We've taken precautions, both of us of course. But you know there's always that teeny tiny little chance. And we...” She dropped her voice, even though they were alone in the room together, and put finger quotes around her next words, too embarrassed to just use the technical term. “'fool around' a lot.” She hesitated, then whispered. “I mean, a lot!”

“It's alright, ma'am. We test for pregnancy every time with our female donors, just in case.”

“Oh.” She sat back in her chair. “Okay. Just in case. But I'm sure I'm not pregnant.”

“I understand.”

“Probably not.”

“Of course. Shall we move on?”

“You'd tell me if I was?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, clearly wanting to wrap up this interview. She let him go on, but her mind kept circling back to that question.

When they finished up, the technician let her pick out her own foam stress toy from the basket. She chose a red, heart-shaped one at random. Or maybe not so random, she thought as she caught a glimpse of Shawn going into one of the many interview rooms with Anita.

What would it be like to be pregnant? With Shawn's child? They weren't anywhere near that point in their relationship. But still, the idea of it... Despite all horrors of this day and the ongoing uncertainties, she couldn't help but smile.

 

 

Lassiter moved through the Blood Bank like a rock star. He'd been giving blood like clockwork for years, doing his civic duty as a universal donor. They all knew him here, and they all loved him. Or, well, at least they appreciated him enough to wave the eight week rule since he was scheduled for Friday anyway.

Moving quickly through the process, the forms and endless questions, he expected the tests to go as well as usual. His temperature was a perfect 98.6. And his pulse and blood pressure fell within acceptable limits. All that remained was the blood test.

The nurse was new to him, an absurdly young woman with a pierced eyebrows, pink streaks in her unnaturally black hair and a skull-and-crossbones pattern on her scrubs. She casually jabbed his finger and squeezed, wiping away the first two drops before collecting a third and putting it in the device beside her.

He accepted the little round bandage she placed on him middle finger, ignoring the fact that she missed covering the tiny puncture almost completely.

The machine at her elbow beeped and she glanced at it, her expression barely shifting from fixed indifference. “Fourteen point one. Too low.”

“Impossible!” He'd actually leapt to his feet in shock, grabbed his traitorous finger and squeezed it furiously before pointing it at her in what, under other circumstances, would be considered an extremely rude gesture. She looked mildly annoyed at best. “Test it again,” he demanded, shaking the offending finger in her face.

“Unclench, dude. That's what I was planning to do. Other hand.”

He retook his chair, squeezed and rubbed and flexed all the fingers on his left hand before extending it to her. True, he'd been drinking a lot of coffee lately and coffee could leach iron from the blood, but this was ridiculous. “I have to pass. He'll kill me if I don't.”

“Who will kill you,” the technician asked absently as she jabbed her chosen finger and wiped away the drops of blood.

“I know the drill, Punky Brewster. Squeeze it again. Get down to the best stuff,” he ordered. She rolled her eyes and squeezed out one more drop, wiping it away before taking the fourth as her sample and patching up his second wounded finger.

“Here we go.” She slipped it into the machine, then leaned back in her chair, arms crossed against her chest, and stared at him. “So who's gonna kill ya, big guy?”

“Spencer is.”

“And why would this Spencer guy want to kill you? Sounds like some kinda domestic dispute to me. Do I need to call the cops on your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? Sister, I am the cops so just watch it.” He glared at her. She smirked back.

Seconds ticked by.

Goth girl didn't even flinch when the machine beeped, but she did look away to check the read out.

“Congratulations,” she said in a monotone. “Fourteen point six, you passed by the skin of your teeth. Guess you're not a dead man after all.”

“Oh, thank God!” Lassiter slumped in relief. Then he instantly straightened up and tried in vain to pretend like that outburst never happened. “I mean, I guess not.”

Once his paperwork was squared away and all his donation bags received their proper labels, Carlton was lead to his usual bed in one corner of the room. They knew he liked the spot because it gave him the best view of the whole room and left his back protected. His usual technician handed him his favorite black, hand-grenade-shaped stress toy and got him started. Carlos knew better than to ask which arm to draw from. It was always the left. 'So it won't interfere with my ability to draw my weapon, if necessary.'

As the blood began to flow with his rhythmic squeezing of the hand grenade, Carlton finally took a deep breath and scanned the room around him.

Henry had just finished and was headed toward the refreshments where Dobson and McNab sat chowing down on the donuts. There'd better be some left for him, he thought. O'Hara still had a few minutes left to go. And Chief Vick was just getting started in the process. He noticed Danny Howard trying to be inconspicuous in the opposite corner and failing miserably at it. He saw a lot of other familiar faces, too. But there was one conspicuously missing from the throng. Someone who'd promised not to run, but who definitely qualified as a flight risk.


	7. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

  
The distant hum of activity in the donation room carried to him down the long hallway, deserted except for the dozens of eyes watching him from framed photographs lining the walls. Even the random announcement or page through the PA system seemed miles away. Just before the doors to the stairwell, he stopped and cautiously opened another door to a darkened room. A wash of cool air swept over him, sending tingles down his arms.

This wouldn't be a bad place to lay low, he thought. An image of Lassie freaking out in his absence made him first grin and then frown. He wasn't breaking his promise, not really. Regardless, it had to be done.

He fumbled for a light switch and hit the jackpot on his third sweep of the wall. Dimmed lights revealed a small, windowless room with six cots, three on each side and all empty and bare. He chose the closest one, testing the springs first with his palms, then with his backside.

Not too hard, not too soft. It was just right, which suddenly made him Goldilocks. Weird, he thought. That meant Henry, Lassie and Jules had to be the three bears. Obviously his dad was the grumpy Papa Bear and Juliet was his adorable Baby bear. That left Lassie as the Momma Bear. Shawn snorted at that ridiculous notion and wished Gus was here to share it with.

Soon, hopefully.

In the meantime, he still had a lot of work to do. Now might be his best and only chance to do it. Lifting his legs, he spun ninety degrees to lie full out on the mattress. The ceiling, much like the rest of the room, was remarkably boring. Maybe that was the point, he thought.

The door swung open and Shawn sat up with a start, feet hitting the floor hard just as Anita came bustling in. “Getting settled already? Excellent.”

“It's cold,” Shawn whined as he accepted the pillow and blanket she'd brought for him. Coming in here was her brilliant idea, but Shawn had his doubts about the whole thing. “I'm seriously supposed to take a nap in this icebox? Without a teddy bear?”

She reached out and gently pressed her hand on one of his bouncing knees, though he hadn't even realized they were jiggling again. He willed himself to stop and swung back onto the bed.

“What you're supposed to do is relax. Napping is optional, but the cold can help promote sleep.”

“Or hypothermia,” he grumbled.

She ignored him. “Now I have to let Detective Lassiter know where you are.”

“No rush on that.”

“Sooner is better than later,” she replied. “I'm not making any promises but I'll see if I can't round up a bear for you while I'm gone.”

“Jules,” he said. “She's my first choice of cuddly bear.”

“Nice try, but I know the detective is your girlfriend. She'd likely elevate your heart rate even more, Shawn, not lower it. You still want to give blood today, don't you?”

He nodded solemnly, letting his head sink into the pillow as he did so.

“Then try to relax. I'll be back in thirty minutes to check your pulse. If it's where it should be, we'll get your donation started. If not, I'm afraid we'll have to reject you today.”

“So, no pressure,” he muttered.

She clicked off the lights. “No pressure. Just close your eyes, dear,” she said softly. “Take a deep breath, and let it go.” Then she was gone.

Alone again, he did as he was told, feeling a little bit of tension ease from him as the breath escaped. A soft whirr had started up and a chilly breeze blew over him, making him snuggle under the plush blue blanket.

In the unfamiliar dark, Shawn tried hard to be calm and relaxed. But his mind kept spinning backward to how he got here in the first place. If Dan Howard hadn't pulled strings to skip ahead of him and everybody else waiting in line, maybe Shawn's pulse would have fallen within acceptable limits. But from the moment he saw that stupid smirk as Howard blew by to claim the interview room meant for him and Anita, Shawn wanted to punch it right off that a-hole's face. For a guy who had to be coerced into donating in the first place, he sure was smug about the whole thing.

Anita tried to laugh off the incident, finding them another private room soon enough. But that anger, plus his ongoing stress and anxiety over Gus, contributed to his current dilemma.

How could he relax when he was wound up tighter than the watch his dad once gave him. Thanks to his overzealous winding, the pocket watch didn't work at all anymore, but Shawn needed to work. He needed to give blood. And he desperately needed to outsmart that bastard Howard. True, his crazy pulse had bought him an extra thirty minutes at the hospital. But it wasn't enough.

Anita had explained the importance of his donation. He felt such a surge of hope when she announced that his blood type was O. Then came the bad news, it was positive instead of negative. When he made some dumb comment about his donation being pointless, she told him flat out just how wrong he was. O positive was the most common type, and therefore the most in demand. Every pint of O positive on hand for those patients who needed it made more pints of O negative available to people with rarer types, like Gus.

Shawn rolled onto his right side and wrapped both arms around the end of the fluffy pillow. He tried to get comfortable, tried hard to slow his heart rate.

Five minutes passed. It wasn't working. He felt just as anxious and alert as ever.

Maybe work really was the answer. He'd been over every piece of information on Howard today and had yet to turn up anything that would prove his psychic-ness to this guy. There wasn't time to sneak out and try to dig up more. Plus, thinking about Howard made him anything but calm. Maybe he needed a different focus.

There was Howard's mysterious fiance', Kitty. But he had nothing to go on there except her silly name and her poor taste in men. Useless.

Another name popped into his mind. Martin Leary.

Lacking a visual image of the driver, Shawn imagined Dennis Leary behind the wheel of the black jeep. It was unfair to use the blameless actor this way, he knew, but Shawn worked far better with a visual. Text on its own he could manage to recall well enough, though sometimes he just felt better writing stuff down. But making connections the way he did, that was a very image-driven process. So he pictured Dennis Leary cruising down the streets of Santa Barbara in his rusty black jeep, adding details as they came to him, whether true or not: Ratty blue jeans, decades-old Pink Floyd t-shirt, and a gold ring worth half a year's salary. A cigarette dangling from his fingers as he recklessly weaves in and out of traffic. No seatbelt, naturally. A bottle of beer in the cup holder. A baggie of marijuana, maybe even some coke, hiding in the glove compartment. And fast food wrappers littering the vehicle floor, threatening to blow away with every sudden turn. True or not, it all fit the kind of scumbag who had no regard for other the safety of other people, and very little for himself.

Images began to flash behind his eyelids, connecting in bizarre and unexpected ways like they do in dreams.

Flames sprang up around the jeep, searing the black paint away while the driver sped on, oblivious to the fire as it spread. Suddenly a fireman appeared, only he wore a three-piece suit and the face of Daniel Howard. He pointed a hose at the flames, but instead of water, gasoline sprayed outward to fuel the blaze. It burned so hot Shawn squinted against the heat and light, but when the flames died down, both the jeep and Leary had vanished. Nothing but a pile of ash remained on the ground. He bent down and wrote a name in the ashes. Technically, two names.

Martin. And Leary.

He'd seen them before – together, but not together... Voices – Lassiter and his dad - echoed in his head. 'Multiple offender?' 'First timers usually don't try to run.' He'd seen that phrase, multiple offender, too. When he probed his memory for an image, tiny print appeared. The weekly police blotter. He checked it every Monday morning to get a good laugh at all the petty crimes and stupid criminals that made up the rest of the SBPD's case load.

There had been a T.J. Leary, arrested on drunk driving charges, six months ago. And he remembered a Thomas J. Martin arrested just last month on the same charge. Martin and Leary, both with T and J as their initials. But no pictures. He pushed his memory further back, turning up a Martin Murphy last year and a T.J. Murphy the year before that.

But they were all just names without faces, coincidentally related by crime, but without a shred of proof that they were actually connected. Something in the dream shifted. Leary returned, but he wasn't Dennis anymore. He wore a different face – limp, dark hair instead of blond, and soft, flabby features completely different from the actor's sharp look. Kind of like Jonah Hill, he thought, but with three extra decades and a couple bouts with alcohol addiction piled on, Shawn thought.

Where had he seen that face before? Some part of him realized he was fully asleep and this could all be just a fuzzy fantasy courtesy of his considerably wild imagination. But a face like that had to come from somewhere.

It had to mean something.

Before he could trace the threads of his dream down anything like a meaningful path, his sleep was interrupted by a sharp thump. It echoed in his brain like the sickening sound of a helpless pedestrian impacting against the hood of an onrushing jeep. The stuff of nightmares.

He woke with a start, clutching the pillow tight to his chest while he tried to calm his suddenly racing heart and remember where he was. And why. A voice in the hallway, all too familiar by now, caught his attention. Silently rolling off his cot, he wrapped the blanket tight around him and crept to the door to listen.

“Kitty, I'm telling you. I've got it under control.”

Yep, no doubt about it. Once again he was listening through the door to one of Dan Howard's conversations. It was some kind of trend, but one he didn't mind. There should always be a door between them, at bare minimum, just to keep Shawn from beating the man senseless.

But this was really too good to be true. Was the annoying ADA really talking to his fiance right outside Shawn's door? Lack of a female voice told him he was eavesdropping on a phone call. Very one-sided, but it could still be enlightening. Cautiously he cracked the door open, just in time to see Howard slam a fist against the hallway wall opposite.

“Damn it, Kitty! I said I've got it under control.” His voice was a hushed growl as he paced the hallway. Shawn watched him from the shadows, amazed that any woman, no matter how mysterious, had agreed to marry this douche bag. “I got backed into a corner, sure, but it's done now. And I told you, she doesn't work here anymore. She's long gone, I swear. Just think how well it'll play on the evening news. I'll be a hero, and you'll be marrying the next District Attorney of Santa Barbara. Babe, this could put me on a path for State Senate, someday maybe even the Presidency!”

He stopped in front of one of the many photographs, just a few down from Shawn's door. Leaning against the wall with one raised forearm, he stared intently at the photo as he listened to the woman's response.

“Kat, it's gonna be okay.” His voice shifted seamlessly from annoyed to soothing. “I haven't forgotten my promise. Spencer will be in jail by nightfall, and in the morning we'll have a nice little press conference to heap on the dirt. He's finished.”

Shawn felt his heart begin to race again. What dirt? Did Howard actually glean anything useful from the morning's fact-finding fiasco? And why the hell should this Kitty person care whether or not Shawn got arrested? He pressed in closer and prayed that Howard would conveniently spill the beans and explain everything for him, right there. But the quick tap of sensible heels coming down the hallway told him he was about to get found out.

In the glass covering the many framed pictures he caught the reflection of both Anita and Henry coming his way. Quickly but silently closing the door, he jumped back onto the cot and assumed the position of slumber that most often fooled his dad when he was a kid. With his back to the door, he clutched his pillow and squeezed his eyes tight, willing his breathing to ease and his heart rate to drop. Damn it, he needed more time!

If there was a confrontation out there in the hallway, Shawn couldn't hear it. It took longer than he expected for the pair to open that door, but when they did, he knew that the ADA was looking over their shoulder.

“See?” His father spoke softly. “Told you he'd be here, sound asleep.”

“He should be in jail,” Howard growled. “I ought to call security right now.”

“You agreed to let him give blood. On live television, remember? How do you think it'll play if he's hauled off to lock-up before he donates, especially with his best friend and partner being one of today's victims.”

Shawn smiled to himself as he heard what could only be Howard, at a loss for words, stalking off. Then the lights flicked on and he rubbed his eyes with one fist as he turned slightly.

“Dad?” One look at his father's face and he knew the old man wasn't fooled for a second. But he played it out for Anita's sake. “Hey, what's up? Any word on Gus?”

“Nothing yet. Anita, could you give us a minute?”

“Sure, Mr. Spencer. I'll wait in the hall.” While Henry sat on the edge of Shawn's cot and patted his knee in an abnormally father-like way, the nurse slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.

He waited a beat, then dropped the act and spoke bluntly. “Did you eavesdrop on Howard's phone call just now?”

“Of course I did, Dad. Wouldn't be much of a psychic detective if I didn't. For all the good it did. I got nothing.”

“Well, I've got something you might find interesting, provided you've calmed down enough to qualify for a donation.”

“I'm pretty calm,” Shawn answered. He did feel a lot more in control since his brief nap. Everything still seemed like a jumbled jigsaw mess, but he felt like he only needed two or three more pieces to make it all fit. “What have you got? Is it about a woman who used to work here?”

Henry actually did a double-take. “How did you know?”

“It was about the only interesting thing Howard said over the phone,” Shawn explained. “He said 'she doesn't work here anymore'. Whoever 'she' is.”

“There was a woman a few years ago, or so my technician Sonja told me. Before he started moving up in the world, Dan Howard was here almost weekly. Seems a public defender's salary barely covered his student loan payments, and he made extra cash from plasma donations. He hooked up with a nurse named Debbie, if you can believe that, and they went hot and heavy for a while. Long story short, she got pregnant and he got promoted. But instead of making an honest woman out of her, he dumped her cold. Rumor has it he took out a loan just to pay her off to get an abortion and leave town.”

“That son of a bitch.”

Henry nodded. “So now she's out of the picture, Howard stops with the plasma but still gives blood because he's got a type even rarer than Gus and Lassiter. And over the years he's continued to go after practically every female nurse in the blood bank.”

“His motto must be 'love 'em and leave 'em'.” Shawn guessed.

“Exactly. But a few months back he meets up with Kitty Wentworth at some charity event. Nobody knows much about her except that she came to town last year and she's a benefactor of the hospital. Ever since they met, he stopped giving blood and he's been focusing all his attention on her.”

“She's his gravy train, I get it.” But how is it going to help me, Shawn couldn't help but wonder. He could psychically name-drop Debbie in Howard's presence to try and get under his skin, but the man would just deny it.

Then Henry dropped the big bomb. “Sonja said that Debbie didn't get the abortion. She's apparently moved in with her parents in San Diego, with a four year old daughter.”

“Howard doesn't know?” When Henry shook his head, Shawn sat up straight, buzzing with excitement.

“Apparently she's been planning to contact Howard about child support but hasn't worked up the nerve yet.”

“Dad, please tell me you got her last name.”

“It's Olsen, but even better, Shawn, I've got her phone number.” Henry flashed him the numbers on a slip of paper just as Anita came back into the room.

“Shall we give it a try, Shawn?”

He looked at her blankly for a second, still too focused on everything his father had said to understand what she meant.

“Your pulse?” She prompted.

Instead of answering, Shawn felt his hand creep toward his temple. Wealthy, reclusive woman who showed up in Santa Barbara a year ago, and who hated Shawn enough to send her lawyer boyfriend after him. There were a few women who could fit that description, but only one of them had a mother whose maiden name happened to be Wentworth. “There's something the spirits want me to see first.”

Shawn rolled to his feet and raced out into the hallway, stumbling to a halt at the spot where he'd seen Howard leaning during his phone call. On the wall hung a large photo of a dozen men and women dressed to the nines at some gala fundraiser for the hospital. A placard beneath the picture listed Kitty Wentworth among the group. But the face that supposedly matched that mysterious name, half hidden by the men standing around her, was one Shawn almost instantly recognized. She'd cropped her hair and dyed it red, but there was no mistaking her. And Howard had called her 'Kat' over the phone.

He pointed at the picture as his father approached. “Holy crap.”

“Holy crap,” Henry echoed when he saw it too. “We've got Howard now.”

“Almost.” Shawn agreed.

“This isn't enough to confront him? You can't wait much longer, kid, or he'll leave the hospital and Lassiter will have no choice but to take you in and book you.”

“I know,” Shawn said. “But I think there's one more piece to this puzzle. And Lassie will be the one to have it.”

“Because he knew Howard from school?”

Shawn shook his head. No, he knew that connection was a dead end. But there was another connection just waiting to be made. He had come so close to finding the answer in his dreams, but he wasn't really psychic. And even if he was, he couldn't just throw out such a wild accusation without proof. He needed to be sure that it was more than just a crazy dream. “I need to see a picture of Martin Leary.”

“You go give blood. I'll find the detectives and see what they've got,” Henry offered.

Shawn grabbed his arm before he could walk away. He'd seen the dark figure stalking toward them. “Speak of the devil, there's Lassie-pants right now.”

“Shawn, I still need to take your pulse.” Anita reminded him. She'd watched the whole 'psychic' episode with a look of mixed skepticism and patience, but she also had a job to do.

“Just one minute more, Anita. I promise,” Shawn said as he headed toward the walking grump-face that was Carlton Lassiter.

The detective opened his mouth, one finger raised in lecture mode, but Shawn stopped him cold before he could say a word. “I need to see a picture of Martin Leary. Do you have it?”

“What?”

“A picture of Leary. Driver's license, booking photo. Anything. Do you have one?”

“You don't need to see him, Spencer. The man is dead. And you're supposed to give blood and go to jail. That was the deal.”

“I wouldn't ask if I didn't absolutely need to see that picture right now. Please, Lassie!” Shawn had dropped the magic word 'please' in a last ditch measure. “Pickle-snot?” he added, hoping to remind the other man of their pact in the car.

When Lassiter blinked, he knew he had him. He pulled out his cell and scrolled through several screens before turning the phone toward Shawn. “There he is. Satisfied?”

It was the same face from his dream – greasy-haired Jonah Hill after years of hard living. Shawn smiled as the last piece of the puzzle fit neatly in place. Apparently, he'd gotten so good that he could solve mysteries even in his sleep.

“Anita, I'm ready.” One deep, calming breath and he held out his wrist. “Let's go for it.”

She stepped up and pressed two fingers to his pulse point as she checked her watch. He resisted the urge to hold his breath. Seconds ticked by while he studied her face. A tiny smile flickered at the corner of her full lips, giving him hope.

“Eighty-two,” she announced. “Shawn, that's well within acceptable boundaries.”

“I passed?”

“You passed!”

“Dad, I passed!” He faltered a bit when he realized that meant they were going to stick him with a giant needle after all. But he'd do it for Gus. Now more than ever, Shawn felt real hope that he'd see his best friend soon. He had everything he needed now for a kick-ass vision that would cut the legs out from under Howard and make whatever 'dirt' he had on Shawn look like nothing but a couple stray dust bunnies. Once he had the vision, the ADA would have no choice but drop all charges and let him stay.

“Where's Howard?” he asked as he hurried toward the donation room, eager to get this all over with and get upstairs where he belonged. “I've had a vision and he needs to hear it.”

It was Juliet, coming from the opposite direction, who dumped ice-cold water on all of his plans. “Shawn, I just passed him a minute ago. He told me he was heading to the station to officially file charges against you.”  



	8. Proof Positive, O Negative by Kirei

Daniel R. Howard was a winner, no doubt about it. Once he set his mind on something, he pursued it relentlessly until he had made it his own. That's how he got his job, his reputation, his women. And he wouldn't stop there. Each new conquest opened the door to more opportunities. The sky was the limit. 

Governor Howard, he thought with a self-satisfied grin as he strode down the hall. He'd always liked the sound of that. After all, if a German body builder turned actor could make it to the governor's mansion, then why not him? Not the presidency though, he thought. There were too many secrets, too many skeletons in his closet, to withstand the scrutiny at that level.

As he glided carefree down the hospital corridors, he reflected on his greatest secret, the one that started them all. The secret of his own middle name.

Most people had no curiosity on the subject. But if anyone asked, he'd say Ryan. He'd used Ryan for years and had paperwork enough to back that up. If someone cared to dig deeper, they might discover that he'd actually changed his middle name to Ryan from Reardon back in college. He would act appropriately embarrassed about the whole affair and endure the 'Reardon' jokes for a few months, but eventually it would drop. But no one aside from his beloved mother – May she rest in peace – and his asshole father – May he burn in hell – knew the whole truth. And they were in no position to spill the beans.

Perhaps it was his lifelong obsession with covering up his own horrifically embarrassing name that had taught him how to lie and manipulate people so well, and how to spot the telltale signs of a liar and manipulator in others.

If Spencer was a real psychic, he hadn't proved it. Never trust mystics, mediums and psychics, he mother once told him. Charlatans, the whole bunch. Now he relished the chance to put one of those fakers behind bars where they all belonged.

At the hospital's most high-profile entryway, he handed his ticket to the parking attendant and claimed a plush, wing-backed armchair while he waited for his car to be brought around. No reporters lurked about the deserted lobby, meaning he could sit back and relax for the moment. He pulled out his phone and started sifting through the flood of messages brought on by today's terrible tragedy. He'd gotten a lot of attention today and he intended to make the most of it.

His quiet moment was short-lived. A voice broke in over the PA system. “Paging Mr. Howard. Daniel Howard, please return to the Blood Center.” It repeated a few seconds later, but by then he had recognized it for the last-ditch ploy that it was. Studiously ignoring the voice that had to belong to Spencer's desperate father, he went back to answering messages.

“Aren't you going to go see what they want?”

Howard startled and hastily pushed to his feet at the sudden appearance of his boss, District Attorney Marco Caruso, standing right in front of him in the lobby. “Excuse me?”

“They're paging you, Danny.”

Howard sighed while his head whirled through all the possible ways to respond. Evasion seemed a good first response. “They're bringing my car around, and I need to get over to the police department right away.”

“To file charges on Shawn Spencer?” Caruso tilted his head to the left and right as he scrutinized Howard, making him feel like a freak show exhibit. “Looks like that eye's going to be quite a shiner, Danny. I didn't figure Spencer for a fighter. What'd you say to make him that mad?”

“Spencer's a lightweight, sir,” he lied. His cheeks still burned with the combination of pain and humiliation from getting knocked on his ass. But he couldn't appear weak in front of his boss. “But assault is assault. I've got a strong feeling that this page is just another one of Spencer's stall tactics to keep me from following through on pressing those charges.” Honesty worked best with Caruso, even if it wasn't the always the entire truth.

“He's still here?” Caruso asked as his mild, dark eyes drifted over the empty lobby. The DA might seem passive and unthreatening, but he was a bulldog in the legal arena, and Howard knew better than to drop his guard around the man.

“He's giving blood, sir.”

“Ah, excellent. That's why I'm here as well. Seems like the thing to do today, under the circumstances.”

“I just finished donating. But I try to give as often as possible,” Howard said, grasping his left arm in hopes of gaining a point or two with his boss.

The PA crackled to life again but the message had changed slightly. “Daniel Howard, please return to the Blood Center to retrieve the information you requested. The vital information you requested is now available. Please return as soon as possible to retrieve it.”

Caruso quirked an eyebrow at Howard, and he knew his reaction would be scrutinized in every possible way. He had to admit, they'd piqued his curiosity. He smiled at Caruso as the parking attendant walked up with his car keys.

“I guess I'm going to be a few minutes longer,” he told the man. “Keep it close for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll show you the way to the Blood Center, sir.” Howard offered as he waved his hand back the way he'd come.

Caruso nodded his approval. “Good man. Let's get to it.”

Howard waited until the DA stepped ahead of him to let loose the grin he'd been suppressing. A few more minutes wouldn't matter in the pursuit of justice against Shawn Spencer, and if he could generate some good will from Caruso in the process, it would be totally worth his time.

As they walked along, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Not wanting to slight his boss, he glanced as it more out of curiosity than any thought of answering. He half-expected it to be another ploy from Spencer, but no. Kitty's name flashed across his screen.

“Crap,” he muttered. Then a quick “Sorry, it's my fiance', I have to take this,” before he answered.

“Honey-”

“Don't you 'honey' me, Danny. I'm here at the hospital, and it's chaos! What's going on? I thought you said Spencer would be in jail by now. But they're telling me he's still here! Seriously, Danny, you couldn't even do this one little thing I asked you for?”

Howard smiled and nodded, not willing to show his boss that anything was amiss. “Everything's under control, I promise. I'll see you soon. Kisses!” He smooched into the phone and hung up on her even as she babbled something about him being a liar. He'd have a lot to smooth over tonight at dinner. But he had promised her results. She would calm down once Spencer was safely behind bars where he belonged.

When they reached the front desk of the Blood Center, Caruso put in his name to begin the process. He could have pulled strings and move to the head of the line, but he seemed content to wait his turn. Howard was a bit disappointed by that. What was the point of having power if you didn't use it. But he had a page to answer. A quick exchange with the receptionist and he was directed back into the large donation room where he spotted the lovely but idiotic Detective O'Hara leading her boyfriend toward the refreshment area. The so-called psychic looked pale. More importantly, he looked defeated. Howard smiled as he started over.

Before he could reach them, he was intercepted by Henry Spencer and Detective Lassiter. “It was you two, wasn't it? You lied to get me back here, Carl? How dare you!” He began, immediately going on the offensive

Lassiter scowled and raised one finger. “First, I told you not to call me Carl anymore. It's Detective Lassiter to you.”

“And second,” the elder Spencer cut in, “You wanted proof that my son is psychic, so we didn't lie when we paged you. He says he's got your proof in spades and I'm going to make damn sure that you listen to him.”

“The hell with that. I should file charges against both of you for interfering with official business.”

“Bullshit.” Lassiter shot back. “You and I both know I've always followed the law a lot closer than you ever have. If you don't want your boss to know just how often you've skirted the law, and if you don't want your fiance' to know just how often you've chased other skirts even just this past year, you'll go over there and talk to him.”

Howard smirked. As threats went, Carl's first one was pretty weak. Nothing that would stick in court. But he'd do well to avoid pissing off Kitty any more than she already was.

“I'll talk to him. I'll give him a whole five minutes to knock my socks off with his psychic-ness, or whatever it is. And then you,” He landed a pointed finger in the middle of his former friend's chest. “You will take him to jail and book him. No more run-around. Got it?”

“Absolutely.”

Howard didn't like the way Lassiter smiled when he said that. It implied that the man believed Spencer was psychic. Impossible. Lassiter was as big a skeptic as he himself was. But he did as promised. He skirted the two men, so different in appearance except for their matching crossed arms and fierce scowls.

“Spencer!”

Startled by his shout, and hampered by Lassiter's handcuffs, the fraud toppled backward out of his chair with a satisfying yelp. Like a rooster who discovered far too late the fox in his hen house.

The bright arc of orange juice that heaved upward from the bottle in Spencer's hand, Howard found considerably less satisfying. Despite his acrobatic leap backward, a few drops spattered against his leather shoes as the idiot tumbled to the floor at his feet.

“Watch it, Spencer!” All the anger Howard had so carefully suppressed still bubbled dangerously close to the surface. Caruso couldn't see him lose his cool. He locked it down, but added in a gruff whisper. “I ought to add this to your list of charges.”

“Sorry. Really sorry considering I got the worst of it, dude,” said Spencer. “But my hands are literally tied.” He held up his cuffed wrists as if to prove he couldn't be held responsible for throwing his drink at someone. “Speaking of which...”

He awkwardly scooted across the floor, his backside centered on the largest puddle of juice as he pivoted toward Howard and raised his cuffed hands. “Could you give me a hand up?”

Howard just rolled his eyes and stepped back. That left Detective O'Hara, Spencer's blinded-by-love girlfriend. She locked hands with him and heaved him upward. She must be much stronger than she looked because she catapulted Spencer straight at him. He tried to dodge, but thanks to the wet floor, they both fell into a graceless heap, the psychic on top of him and apologizing furiously as he tried to extricate himself.

“Save your sorries for court, Spencer,” Howard said as he shoved the other man off him and got to his feet. “I came here to listen to your supposed proof, but instead I've been assaulted twice more in the space of a minute. My suit and shoes are ruined now.”

“Accidentally spilling orange juice and then falling due to a slick floor do not qualify as instances of assault under any definition of the term. And there are plenty of witnesses this time,” O'Hara said, her voice as frosty as her arctic blue eyes. “If Shawn says he has proof, then you need to sit your butt down and listen to him. I'll go get some towels.” With that she stalked off, leaving them relatively alone.

Howard regarded the juice-spattered chairs around the small snack table with disdain. Not to mention all the other blood donors sitting around them, nibbling their cookies and pretending not to eavesdrop.

“I'd rather we move somewhere a little less public, Spencer. How about you?”

“Well, I'm currently wearing the juice I was supposed to drink, and I haven't even had my Nutter Butters yet, but the spirits are eager to get this over with. Hallway?”

Howard rolled his eyes as the notion of spirits, but he nodded. He let the clumsy oaf go ahead of him out of the room to avoid further 'accidents'. Grabbing a handful of napkins as he went, he dabbed at the spots of juice that had soaked through his grey pin-striped pants. Maybe the dry-cleaners could save the suit. But nothing could save Spencer from prison. He'd make damn sure of that.

The moment they turned the corner into the sparsely used hallway, it began.

“I'm getting something.”

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Howard muttered. “Go on then. Dazzle me with your vision.” He made air quotes with his fingers as he spoke the last word derisively. Spencer didn't seem to notice.

“Does your deal still stand?” he asked.

Howard smirked. “I'm not going to drop the assault charges, if that's what you're thinking. But sure, if you can prove to me that you are really, truly psychic, I won't pursue fraud charges on you or your... associates.”

“That sounds fair to me, and the spirits agree.” Immediately his eyes screwed shut and his brow furrowed. He spun around and paced down the hallway away from Howard. “They've been waiting to tell you something.”

“Oh, excellent. I'm getting the full show this time, all the theatrics.” He rubbed his hands together, eager to get this over with. Spencer turned and walked back to him in five long paces. “What have you got?”

The other man paused, one cuffed hand lifted to his temple, and said, “Call her.” Then Spencer turned and paced away again.

Of all the things this loser could have opened with, Howard hadn't expected something like this. “Call who?” he asked, humoring the man.

“Call your girlfriend,” he said as he paced back toward Howard

“I just talked to my girlfriend five minutes ago.”

“You mean...” He paced away yet again, his constant motion begin to get on Howard's nerves. “... you talked to your fiance', Kitty Wentworth.”

Howard smiled. He knew exactly where this was headed, but he'd let the man continue just to prove the point. “That's no big secret.”

“But the plastic surgery, the dye job and the taking of her mother's maiden name, all of that is a pretty big secret, isn't it? That you are engaged to the artist formerly known as Prince?” Spencer stopped about ten yards away and spun to face him. “No, wait, strike that. It the woman formerly known as Katerina McCallum.”

“Bravo!” Howard clapped his hands. “Kudos for passing off as a vision something that you could have found out from anybody at the hospital where she serves on the Board of Directors and is a top donor. They all know about her family's sordid past, and they support her desire to make a fresh start unconnected with the McCallum name. The name, I might add, that you were directly responsible for ruining.”

Spencer dropped his psychic pose and actually laughed. “I think her dad did that all on his own when he accidentally killed his own son and then killed his son's best friend to cover it up.”

“You're so damned smug and full of yourself,” Howard said. “No wonder she hates you so much. You robbed her of her father.”

“She can visit him in prison any old time she likes, unless she's afraid people will remember that she's actually related to him.”

“He died in prison.” That wiped the smirk off the so-called psychic's face. “Your spirits didn't inform you of that fact, I see. Two years ago, cancer.”

Spencer stared at him hard for a few seconds, blissfully speechless. But suddenly he swooned like a bad B-movie actor, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. “Oh, boy. You have to call her! The spirits demand it!”

“I'm not calling Kitty.”

“Not Kitty. Her!”

“Her who?”

Swaying on his feet, he conveniently toppled in the direction of the nearest wall, which propped him up. He did put on a good show, Howard thought. “Twinkies! Ding Dongs! HoHos! No, she's not a ho. She's Little Debbie... Debbie Downer? Nurse Debbie!”

“A-ha! Now I know you're full of shit, just spewing out the gossip you picked up from the Blood Center nurses. They all know me here, and they all hate me. I'm sure they were all too eager to trash my good name. But if that's all you've got, then you've got nothing. Admit it. Face it like a man, Spencer. You're done!”

He smirked and folded his arms across his chest confidently. “You're five minutes are just about up. Anything else?”

Spencer pushed off from the wall and walked slowly toward him. The maneuver would have seemed menacing if he wasn't still soaked with orange juice. It even dripped from his hair, Howard noted as the man stopped about three feet away from him. “I wonder if you'll face it like a man when the shit hits your personal fan.”

Howard didn't feel at all threatened, since he stood a good foot taller than Spencer and had at least thirty pounds on him. Still, he asked with a bitter smile. “Is that some kind of threat?”

“No, it's a fact. Martin Leary, do you know the name? I can see him now, driving that big black jeep around town, having a grand old time. Free as a bird and drunk as a skunk. Which... is a stupid expression if you think about it. I mean. I've never seen a drunk skunk. And I've seen at least four of them. The moms really don't like it when you mistake their babies for weird looking kittens. But that's neither here nor there. The point!”

Spencer wobbled unsteadily before gathering himself. Howard rolled his eyes, but he was curious to see where the man was going with all of this.

“The point is that Martin Leary is responsible for all the terrible, horrible things that happened today. Gus, the people in that van, a whole bus full of tourists. Innocent people, all hurt because of him. And he's dead now, so maybe you could say he's a victim, too.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Spencer leaned in closer. His voice was quiet and more serious than Howard had ever heard before. “Martin Leary might be responsible. But he's not solely responsible. I bet the media will argue that the guy who kept him from going to jail three years ago – on drunk driving and hit and run charges, no less – is somewhat responsible, too. After all, Leary would be in jail right now if it weren't for a manufactured technicality and some courtroom theatrics. That guy, that lawyer who got him off, should take at least a little of the blame, don't you think? Because Martin Leary used to be known as... Anyone? Anyone?”

Howard scowled at him, tired of this stupid game “Get on with it!”

“I'm sorry. The answer we were looking for is T.J. Murphy.” The glee shining in Spencer's eyes matched the sudden rage in Howard's heart. “You remember him, don't you? You're old law school buddy with the drinking problem?”

His heart rate accelerated as he clenched his fists. It couldn't be true. He'd be ruined. It could not be! “You're making it up. Nothing but desperation and a name you fished off the internet. You've got no proof.”

“My psychic vision gave me the name, and DNA will prove it. They'll have to use DNA to confirm the jeep driver's identity. It's only a matter of time before the news finds out that the Driver's License was a fake and that Martin Leary is just one of a long line of aliases used by T.J. Murphy, just so he could keep driving after his original license was suspended. How do you think the press will spin that, Danny?”

“You're lying.”

“The spirits don't lie! And neither do my hips. They're all saying pack it up and go home. You're done.”

“You son of a bitch!” Now it was Howard's turn to pace away as he raked his finger through his hair in frustration. Almost, he snapped. Only the sure and certain knowledge that Spencer was a complete fraud and would be rotting in jail within the hour kept him in check. Let the man rage on about spirits and visions, he told himself. Even if what he said about Leary really being his old friend T.J. was true, he could still find an out. He always did. He'd come out of this smelling like a rose if he played his cards right.

With a deep breath he willed his fists to loosen and his shoulders to drop as he turned back to face Spencer. He let a smile play across his lips to show that he wasn't bothered one bit. “Good effort there at the end, I'll give you that. I don't know how you connected Leary with Murphy but unless your spirits are named Google and Bing, I'm pretty sure it didn't come from them. Even if it's true, it won't touch me. I've played the game a lot longer than you, kid. Titanium is my middle name.”

“Really? Because the spirits also told me that your middle name was Rochelle.”

For a split second, Howard froze. His vision tunneled down into a pinpoint of red rage. It's not possible. It's just not possible. Shawn Spencer could not be psychic. Maybe he had misheard.

He took a step closer. “I'm sorry. What did you just say?”

“Daniel Rochelle Howard is your full name. It's a lovely name. Rochelle is very French, very... pretty. The spirits do want to know something. Maybe you can clear it up for them. Is Daniel is short for Daniella?”

Howard closed the gap between them in one long stride, his fists curling into the orange juice-soaked fabric of his shirt. “No one knows my middle name. No one!”

Spencer's face looked pale but he only said very quietly. “Now are you convinced that I'm psychic?”

His voice dropped to a dangerous growl as he replied. “I'm going to make sure that your father, your partner, your girlfriend, and everyone else connected with you goes to prison as accessories to fraud. And you, you will never see the light of day again, I promise you that.” He shoved Spencer away from him. The other man stumbled but recovered quickly and smiled that same stupid smile.

“It'll be a neat trick if you can actually do it, since you'll be looking for a new job tomorrow. Once D.A. Caruso finds out about your connection to Leary, you're toast.”

“Now that is a threat. You're threatening me?”

“Damn straight, I am. I heard Caruso is out there giving blood right now. He likes me, you know,” Spencer said as he started to move past Howard back toward the donation room. “And I think I feel another vision coming on. Come see the show, Rochelle. What do you say?”

Five seconds later, Howard found himself being forcibly pulled off of the psychic detective, who lay cowering beneath him on the floor, his arms raised in pitiful self defense. The handcuffs being slapped across his wrists brought him back down to hard reality. But even if he had just completely ruined his life, it was worth it just to have punched that insufferable smirk off of Shawn Spencer's face.  



	9. Chapter 9

“Oh crap.”

As if getting beaten up by Howard wasn't bad enough, for the second time that day, Shawn threw up. This time it was all over the hospital's highly polished floor. At least this time he didn't take a header into his own vomit, but the wave of dizziness that hit afterward was inconvenient. Not part of the plan at all. Most of the plans Shawn made with Gus didn't play out quite the way they wanted. This plan, made for Gus but not with him, didn't work quite the way Shawn had pictured it. The final result was all that mattered, but Lassie and Henry could have showed up a bit sooner to pull the violent ass-bag off of him. That would have been nice, he thought as he sat up and slowly rubbed his tender jaw.

“Need a hand, kid?”

Dumb question, Shawn thought. Of course he needed a hand since both of his were still cuffed. With a little help from his dad, he stood and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. The fleeting taste of orange juice reminded him that he really needed to refill everything his stomach just lost. But first...

Lassiter had just begun to read Howard his rights, although the angry Assistant D.A. didn't seem to care about his right to remain silent. He wouldn't shut up.

“I'll see you behind bars, Spencer! If it's the last thing I do. I know you're nothing but a fraud. Justice will be done!”

“Can it, Danny,” Lassiter growled, trying to keep the smaller man under control while he struggled against the restraint. “You wouldn't know justice if it jumped up and bit you on the ass. Henry and I heard everything. You promised not to press fraud charges.”

“Only if he proved he was psychic,” Howard shot back, his face growing redder by the second. “He's fake, and you know it.”

“I know you're an ass, Rochelle. Now quit squirming so I can get the other cuff on, or I'll tase you right now for resisting arrest, I swear.”

“Spencer's the one who should be under arrest!”

“Dude. I already am,” Shawn pointed out, holding out his own lovely pair of handcuffs. “But neither of us has to be.” 

That shut Howard up, at least for the moment. Shawn knew he had to tread lightly. Everything hinged on this moment. He took a deep breath and continued. “I punched you, you punched me. If we went to court over the whole thing, it would look pretty silly, wouldn't it? The suits, the counter suits. The plaid suits too, if they let my dad into the courtroom.” Beside him, Henry just rolled his eyes, but he kept a steadying hand on Shawn's shoulder.

Howard shot him a calculating look, almost hopeful if he didn't look so short-blonde-Hugh-Jackman-with-bunny-teeth evil. “You propose a deal?”

“Drop your charges and I won't press any of my own. You just hit me a couple or seven more times than I hit you, so it seems more than fair.”

“He's got a good point. You should take the deal,” said Lassiter. 

Henry nodded, finally releasing Shawn's arm to strike his stern cop/father pose, hands folded across his chest, eyebrow quirked and blue eyed death glare on high beam. Classic, thought Shawn. And nice that for once someone else was on the receiving end of that glare instead of him.

Seconds ticked by while Howard mulled over his options. But Shawn knew he didn't really have any options, none other than this one. Howard nodded, his face stern and calculating. “Fine, no charges on assault or fraud.” 

“Or anything else,” Lassiter added, ever shrewd when it came to lawyers. “No legal switcheroos or mumbo jumbo tricks. You leave him and his alone from now on.”

“Just so long as he leaves me and mine alone.”

“Absolutely,” Shawn agreed as they shook hands on it, handcuffs clinking. And just like that it was done. 

“I'm free. I'm free!” Shawn exclaimed as the cuffs finally came off. “I'm free at last! Lassie, you ain't never had a friend like me!” He couldn't resist going in for a genie-style bear hug. The head detective's reaction was predictable, though Shawn got in at least a brief squeeze of gratitude.

“Get off, Spencer,” he said with a none-too-gentle shove that sent Shawn stumbling back into his father. He grinned despite the fireflies that sparked along the edges of his vision. He didn't have time to be dizzy, not when he was so close to his goal.

There was just one more important thing to do. He lifted one hand to his temple and proclaimed, “You really, really, really need to call her now.”

“Leave Kitty out of this, Spencer. You stay away from her or the deal is void.”

“I'm nowhere near her. Just make the call. Besides, the spirits think you might want your phone.” He pointed with his free hand to the floor between them where Howard's cell lay perilously close to Shawn's every-spreading pool of vomit. “Before it's too late.”

The sudden flash of panic on Howard's face was priceless. He patted his suit pocket as if to verify that yes, it was indeed his phone on the floor, dropped when he tackled Shawn. Free of cuffs, but not yet free of Lassiter's hold on his elbow, the Assistant D.A. yanked away and lunged for his precious phone.

Shawn watched him closely, afraid to say any more for fear the ass would not make the call just to spite him. When Howard entered his security code to unlock the device, Shawn crossed his fingers. When the man hit the speed dial – Number One - Shawn held his breath. And when the soft, clear voice of a woman came through the phone, he breathed a sigh of relief that left him rather woozy.

“Hello? Who is this?” The woman repeated, her voice coming through loud and clear.

Danny Howard's eyes practically bugged right out of his head. Because this was not his speed dial Number One. This was not Kitty.

Shawn smirked. And he couldn't stop from grinning even wider when Kitty herself appeared around the corner with Juliet by her side. 

Katarina. Kitty. Whatever she was called herself now, she had nothing on Jules, he thought happily. It took him a few seconds for his fuzzy brain to catch up the conversation that followed. He really needed to eat something soon. But he wouldn't miss this for the world. The conversation went something like this.

“Kitty, what are you-?” Howard stammered, half into the phone and half at his fiance face to face.

“No, this is Debbie. Is that you, Danny? My God! Danny, I've been trying to reach you for months,” said the woman on the other end of his phone.

“Debbie?” He repeated in confusion and disbelief.

“Debbie! Why are you calling Debbie?” Katarina growled fiercely as she stalked toward him.

“Hey, Kit Kat.” Shawn waved at her as she passed him by, skirting the vomit just as deftly on her way to confronting her husband-to-be. Despite her altered appearance, her eyes still blazed with that same fire he remembered from the day he and Gus had accused her of murder all those years ago.

“I didn't call Debbie, I swear, honey. I was trying to call you because Spencer said... It was him! It has to be.”

Without a word to him, Kitty grabbed the cell from his hand and tapped the screen. “Then why is her number programmed into your phone, hmm?”

“It was Spencer! I'm telling you,” Howard sputtered uselessly. “Somehow he...”

Kitty held up one and he fell silent. Then she spoke softly into the phone. The conversation was short but to the point. In an instant she rounded on her fiance'. 

“A daughter? Oh my god. You never said there was a child.”

“I... I didn't know! I told her, I paid her! She was supposed to have gotten-”

“Gotten what? An abortion? You tried to pay your ex-girlfriend off to kill her own child? Daniel, that's lowest, most detestable...” She shook her head in clear disgust, then turned her attention to Shawn at last. He braced himself, knowing she hated him and not for entirely stupid reasons. But her expression softened as she spoke.

“Mr. Spencer. Shawn, I... I blamed you for a long time. For my father. Mostly because my dad never really accepted any responsibility himself. But it was all him. I know that. I was just being petty and vindictive. But I never meant for any of this to happen. I'm truly sorry about your friend Mr. Guster. I didn't know until Detective O'Hara told me a few minutes ago. And after what I just overheard...” She paused, wiped her forehead for a moment before a real smile lit up her face. “I guess you're the real thing after all. And apparently Daniel's been keeping a few secrets from me.” Her frown returned in full force as she glared at Howard.

“I can explain.”

“Oh, I look forward to hearing it. Mr. Spencer, Detectives, please excuse us. We've got a lot to talk about.” Shawn happily stepped aside to let her past, grateful when his dad steered him away from the vomit.

“Somebody needs to clean that up. This is a hospital, after all,” Kitty said imperiously as Howard followed meekly behind her around the corner, headed back through the Blood Bank's main room. 

“Ask him about T.J. Murphy!” Shawn called after them.

“Thank you, I will,” Kitty replied with a wave before they disappeared.

There was uncharacteristic silence in the corridor for a few seconds. Then Henry observed. “Looks like she's got him by the short hairs.” Lassiter snorted at that and even Juliet smiled, the relief hitting all of them at once. It was finally over.

Shawn laughed. “Too bad the D.A. didn't get to see any of that.”

Lassiter's smile widened, a scary look for his usually stern face. “He didn't see a thing, true, but I think he caught an earful. Check for yourself.”

Curiosity piqued, Shawn lead the group along the same route Kitty and Howard took. They rounded the corner just in time to see District Attorney Marco Caruso, sitting on a donation bed with a needle in his arm and a penguin-shaped stress toy in his hand, level Howard with a furious look. “I'll see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning, Daniel.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard mumbled, then scurried after Kitty like the rat he was.

“Caruso heard everything?”

“He heard plenty,” Anita said as she pulled away from Caruso's bed and met them. “The section of corridor you were in isn't exactly soundproof. And I may have arranged for D.A. Caruso to have a bed much closer to this hallway then he might normally have gotten. Coincidentally.”

Shawn three his arms around Anita in a hug so big, he almost fell over. “You are wonderful!”

Anita's dusky skin blushed pink with embarrassment and delight as he pulled away. “If you liked that, just wait until you hear the good news about Mr. Guster.”

 

“Is she mad?”

The question caught Henry off guard as they waited for the elevator that would take them up to Gus's ward. “Drink your juice,” he commanded his son. When Shawn had taken another long drink, he added. “Is who mad? Juliet?”

Both detectives had stayed down in the Blood Bank at the request of Mr. Caruso, to answer his questions about Howard and Shawn. 

“No, not Jules. Mrs. G.”

“Why would she be mad, Shawn? She knows that none of this was your fault, and she knows you helped spark huge interest in the blood drive today. Considering Gus's rare type and the fact that, according to Anita, he's getting a transfusion of Lassiter's blood even as we speak, believe me she is not mad at you. Drink some more. You look like crap.”

“I'm fine. Let's go see Gus,” he said with a lead-footed bounce in his step, clearly faking it as they got onto the elevator. Any fool could see Shawn was starting to crash. He looked pale as a ghost, making the fresh bruises on his cheek and chin stand out starkly. Henry would make sure he got some real food and rest soon. But Shawn had objected to every suggestion except the juice box. Nothing would keep him from Gus.

Henry knew he had to keep him alert and focused. “I get how you picked up most of what you hit Howard with, but where'd you get that stuff about his middle name being Rochelle?”

“The spirits told me.” Shawn said with a glint of mischief in his drooping eyes.

“Try again, kid.”

“Okay, Gus told me.”

“When? How?”

Shawn shrugged. “He's awesome like that. I needed dirt on Howard to get him off my back, and Gus just kept digging and digging. Turned out one of the docs on Gus's route was his pediatrician. And he was only too happy to dish the dirt on Howard for a few extra complimentary Central Coast pens. I thought it was a pretty silly name, sure, but not so punch-worthy.” He rubbed his jaw.

“I'll get you some ice and aspirin soon.”

“As soon as I see Gus.”

“Right.” Henry didn't push the issue, but he gestured at the juice box. Shawn took another sip while they waited for people to get off and on at the next floor.

“The phone was a nice touch,” Henry added quietly. “You lifted it when you fell on him in the Blood Bank, right?”

Shawn nodded. “And I dropped it when he attacked me.”

“What if he didn't attack you? How would you have gotten it back into his pocket? And how did you know he wouldn't make the call you kept telling him to make in the meantime?”

“I just... It was a gamble,” Shawn said simply, almost modestly. He must be truly exhausted to start acting modest all of a sudden.

“A big gamble. But it paid off. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

The elevator doors opened onto a quiet fourth floor corridor. Henry knew the way to Gus's room, thanks to Juliet. But Shawn immediately took the lead. If ever his son's unique gift could be considered truly psychic, it was right now. He felt certain that Shawn had never heard so much as a room number, yet he seemed drawn to his lifelong best friend. Like a dowser finding water, or a missile finding its target. He unerringly went left to the nearest nurses station, then veered right down the second hallway. But he stopped short when Winnie Guster came into view, stepping out of a room that must belong to Gus.

“It's alright, Shawn. Gus is out of the woods ,and Winnie's not mad at you.” Henry squeezed his son's shoulder to reassure him as he stepped past to meet her. Winnie smiled warmly at them both.

“Detective O'Hara just called to let me know you two were on your way up. I'm so glad you could make it in time. Visiting hours are almost over.”

“I'm not leaving,” Shawn said firmly.

“Shawn, only family members are allowed after eight,” Henry told him patiently. 

“It's eight o'clock already? But I am family,” Shawn insisted, creeping closer to the door, although he seemed almost afraid to go in and see Gus now that he was so close. “And I'm not leaving Gus. I promised. Is he...”

“Burton is still sleeping off his anesthetic, but his doctors are very optimistic that he'll make a complete recovery. Would you like to go in and sit with him for a bit?”

Henry saw his son nod, a genuine smile lighting up his face, so he turned back to Winnie to thank her. Suddenly her eyes went wide and she cried out in alarm. “Shawn!”

With reflexes only slightly slowed by age, but instincts as sharp as ever, Henry realized what was happening. He lunged back toward Shawn just as he crumpled to the floor, barely catching his son's head before it could bounce off the linoleum. The half-empty juice box wasn't so lucky, and the hospital maintenance staff could now credit his son with a third mess to clean-up

“Oh, the poor dear! I've heard he's had a rough day. Henry, let's put him on the couch in Burton's room.”

With the help of a couple nurses, they soon had Shawn situated in the darkened room. During the move, Shawn woke up for a few seconds, sat up and apologized, said he was fine and then passed out cold again. 

“I think he'll be out for a while this time,” Henry observed as Winnie affectionately tucked Shawn in with a blanket and kissed him on the nose. 

“We should get some food. When these two wake, they'll be famished,” said Winnie. They were both nearly out the door when she added. “You know, Henry, Shawn did say he wasn't leaving.”

Henry grinned as he looked proudly at his slumbering son. “One thing about that kid, when Shawn makes a promise, he keeps it.”

 

The room was dark. Not his blanket, not his bed, not his room. A dim light in the corner illuminated a hospital bed, with banks of softly beeping and whirring devices all connected the bed's occupant. 

Gus.

Shawn held his breath. If this was a dream, it was both cruel and wonderful. But it had to be real. Shawn was never this hungry in his dreams, not even in his nightmares. He got up quietly and moved to Gus's side.

“Hey, buddy. I finally made it,” he whispered.

“'bout damn time.”

Shawn jumped. “Gus! You're awake!”

“So are you, finally,” Gus said as he cracked open first one eye and then the other. His voice was weak and rough. “How's your hand?”

“My hand?” Only then did Shawn notice the bruised knuckles of his right hand. He flexed his fingers but felt only a twinge of pain. His shoulder felt worse, but it was nothing to the huge cast covering Gus left arm. “I'm fine. I did it though. I proved it to Howard. That I'm psychic. He's gonna leave us alone from now on.”

“I heard that. And I heard that the reason your hand is bruised is 'cuz you decked Daniel Howard. For me, your dad said. You didn't have to do that, Shawn.”

“Yes I did,” he said without hesitation. “I absolutely did. Did you also hear that you've got a pint of Lassie blood running through your veins?”

Gus looked genuinely alarmed for a moment, cringing at his IV line like it was a poisonous snake. “What? I do? It's not my fault, I was unconscious!”

“Dude, it's okay, it's not weird,” Shawn reassured him. “In fact, I think it makes both you and Lassie extra awesome.” Gus just shook his head, but then he smiled and Shawn never felt better. “Dude, that reminds me. What did you want to tell me?”

“When?”

“This morning. You came into the office all happy and eager as a puppy to tell me something, but I was too preoccupied with Howard. What was it?”

“Seems like ages ago. But it was no big deal,” said Gus.

“C'mon, son. Spill it.”

“Well, okay. I was able to get us... Wait for it, Shawn. Two tickets to see Tears for Fears in L.A. Next month. Front row center.”

“How did you... They were sold out months ago!”

Gus grinned and brought up his right hand as if to brush his nose, but the heart monitor attached to his finger prevented the smooth move. “I have my ways, Shawn.”

“Do your ways involve sucking up to your boss for weeks on end and hinting relentlessly until he caves and gives you his extra tickets?” 

Gus just shrugged. “What would you ever do without me.”

“I hope to God I never have to find out.”

“Amen to that.” Gus agreed as the two best friends executed a flawless fist bump. 

If this were movie, it would have been the perfect ending. Fade to black and role the credits and the catchy theme song, Shawn thought. But of course, this wasn't a movie. It wasn't even a low-budget cable TV show. This was real life. An awkward silence followed. He hated awkward silences.

“You tired?” Shawn asked. 

“Not really. You?”

“Nope. Wanna watch some TV? There's that 21 Jump Street marathon running all day today.”

“Sure,” Gus agreed. Shawn pulled up a chair and they settled in to watch.

After a few minutes, Shawn said. “I'm really, really hungry.”

“Me, too! Dude, I haven't had anything since breakfast.”

“Almost everything I ate, I threw up. I guess that makes us even. Do you think this place has room service.”

“Hospitals don't have room service. Well, they do but not in the middle of the night. Go get me something to eat.”

“Go get it yourself!”

“I just had major surgery and I'm in a hospital gown, Shawn. You should do this for me, you owe me.”

“Owe you? I gave up a whole pint of blood for you. And I got beat up by a lawyer too. If anything, you owe me.”

“Boys!” Both men jumped and spun toward the doorway, where Mrs. Guster stood with her arms filled with snacks. “Settle down at once, this is a hospital, not some rowdy pool hall.”

Shawn and Gus exchanged synchronized smirks at her weird 'pool hall' reference, but they happily accepted her food offerings. A few minutes later, feeling a bit closer to full than to empty, they refocused on the TV.

“So what are we watching?” Mrs. G asked as she pulled up a chair on the other side of her son and took a sip of her Mr. Pib. “Oh! I remember this show from when you two were just boys. This is the show with that Holly Robinson, isn't it? And that nice young man. What was his name? Boys, help me out.”

“Johnny Depp?” Gus suggested.

“Richard Greco?” said Shawn.

“No, not them. It was... I know, it was Peter DeLouise! Now he was a fine looking young-”

“Uh, you know I'm starting to feel pretty tired.” Shawn faked a huge yawn and stretch, and Gus quickly followed his example, though he might not have had to fake as much.

“Yeah, and I just had major surgery, you know, so, I need my rest.”

“Okay, I get it. Bill and Henry and I will see you two in the morning. Shawn, don't keep my Burton awake.”

“I won't, Mrs. G,” Shawn promised as he relocated to the couch and crawled under the blanket. 

She kissed her son on the forehead. “Burton, don't you keep Shawn awake either.”

“We'll be good, Mom. I promise.”

Winnie Guster snuck out of the room, dimming the lights as she left. A minute later Shawn founded himself staring up at the ceiling of the darkened hospital room, the quiet whir of medical equipment already lulling him to sleep. It almost felt like one of their slumber parties back when they were kids. This nightmare of a day was finally ending, and a lot better than he could have ever hoped. 

“Goodnight Shawn. I'm gonna sleep now,” Gus mumbled in the dark. Just like old times, Shawn thought with a smile. Gus always had to spell it out when he wanted to sleep for real and not stay up talking anymore, or Shawn would just keep going and going. “I'm glad you're here and not in jail," he added. "That would suck.”

“Agreed,” Shawn said as he felt himself begin to drift to sleep. “And I'm glad you're okay, cuz if you had died on me, Gus... Well, that would really really really REALLY suck.”

“You know that's right.”


End file.
